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BOB CRATCHIT AND TINY TIM. 

From a design by S. Eytinge, Jr. 

Engraved expressly for JAS. R. OSGOOD. & CO/S Diamond DicUens. 



DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 



SECOND SERIES. 



DIALOGUES AND DRAMAS. 



ARRANGED BY 



W. ELIOT FETTE, A.M. 




BOSTON : 
LEE AND SHEPARD, PUBLISHERS. 
New York: 

LEE, SHEPARD AND DILLINGHAM. 
1871. 



?^>^^^ 

'%^' 



e' 



Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, 

Br W ELIOT FETTE, 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 



S$r270 
" '29 



STEREOTYPED AT THE 

BOSTON STEREOTYPE FOUNDRY, 

19 Spring Lane. 



PREFACE. 



In arranging my first volume of Dialogues, it was my aim 
to make each scene entirely independent of every other, as 
I thought that so they would be best adapted to school pur- 
poses; at the same time, by bringing closely together those 
scenes which were taken from the same novel, I intended to 
show that there was ascertain connection between them, and 
to suggest the idea of grouping them in the form of dramas 
for evening entertainments. Finding that the possibility of 
such a use of the dialogues had been generally overlooked, 
I took occasion, in the preface to the third edition of the 
book, to call attention to it, and to give an outline of several 
little plaj'S which I had myself formed in that way, and 
which had been performed with success. 

In this volume I have pursued a different course, and in- 
stead of a collection of dialogues which might be grouped 
into dramas, I have arranged a number of dramas which 
may be, if desired, separated into dialogues, nearly every 
scene containing enough of interest in itself to render it 
acceptable as a part of a school exhibition. 

If it may be assumed that by most persons that will be 

3 



4 PREFACE. 

deemed the best dramatization of an author's works in which, 
without loss of unity, the language of the original has been 
most faithfully preserved, I may claim that the following 
"Dramas from Dickens" are superior to those hitherto pre- 
sented under that name, for they are given here just as Mr. 
Dickens wrot^ them, without alteration or interpolation ; 
and when it is added that Mr. Dickens himself took part 
in the performance of plays from these same stories, no fur- 
ther proof would seem to be required of their being worthy 
the ambition of the most talented performers, and the atten- 
tion of the best audience. 

In every scene careful directions are given as to entrances, 
exits, and positions on the stage, and much of what is tech- 
nically called "stage business" is indicated; whilst at the 
end of the book will be found a complete Index to Charac- 
ters, with a description of the personal appearance and cos- 
tume of each person. 

W. E. F. 

October 2, 1871. 



CONTENTS 



A MERRY CHRISTMAS. 

PAGS 

Christmas Eve. ~. it 

Marley's Ghost 17 

Christmas Past 22 

Christmas Present 27 

Christmas Yet-to-Come ^^ 

Never too late to Mend. . . . • 42 

The End of it All 45 

THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH. 

The Carrier 40 

The Blind Girl 64 

Bertha's Picnic 71 

The Crisis 76 

Reparation 80 

Sight Restored 8^ 

My Boy from the Golden South Americas. . . 95 

THE BATTLE OF LIFE. 

. All a Farce. . . ; 10^ 

Snitciiey and Craggs 122 

Home 130 

A INIystery i^^^ 

The Welcome 140 

The Nutmeg Grater 14S 

Home Again 160 

5 



O CONTENTS. 

THE TWO CLUBS. 

Master Humphrey's Clock 173 

Mr. Weller's Watch 1S2 

PURSUIT OF KNOWLEDGE. 

A Literary Man 197 

Boffin's Bovver 207 

THE PROPOSAL. 219 

MR. MICAWBER'S GAUNTLET. 231 

SCENES IN THE FLEET. 

Sam Weller's Resolution 243 

How he Carried it Out 246 

A Triumphant Success 253 

A Family Party 258 

Only a Matter of Form 267 

All Right and Tight 274 

A General Settlement 276 

MRS. WELLER'S WILL. 297 

MISCELLANEOUS. 

A New Acquaintance 305 

Some Valuable Advice 311 

Jealousy 314 

A WiCTiM o' Connubiality 317 

INDEX TO CHARACTERS AND COSTUMES. 327 



STAGE DIRECTIONS. 
(^The reader is su^^osed to face the audience.') 

C. Centre. C. D. Centre Door. 

L. Left. R. Right. 

L. C. Left Centre. R. C. Right Centre. 

L. U. E. Left Upper R. U. E. Right Upper 

Entrance. Entrance. 



MERRY CHRISTMAS. 



DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

SECOND SERIES. 



MERRY CHRISTMAS. 



Christmas Eve. 



Scene : Office of Ebenezer Scrooge, the Miser. — 
Scrooge at his desk. His clerk, Bob Cratchit, 
in a small adjoining room. 

Sinter Fred. 

Fred. A Merry Christmas, uncle ! God save you ! 

Scrooge. Bah ! Humbug ! 

JFred. ' Christmas a humbug, uncle ! You don't 
mean that, I am sure. 

Scrooge. I do. Merry Christmas! What right 
have you to be merry.? What reason have you to be 
merry.? You're poor enough. 

Fred. ( Gayly.) Come, then, what right haye you 
to be dismal.? What reason have you to be morose.? 
You're rich enough. 

Scrooge. Bah ! Humbug ! 

Fred. Don't be cross, uncle. 

(u) 



12 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

Scroosre. What else can I be when I live in such 
a world of fools as this? Merry Christmas! Out 
upon MenT Christmas ! What's Christmas time to 
you, but a time for paying bills without money ; a 
time for finding yourself a year older and not an hour 
richer ; a time for balancing your books, and having 
every item in 'em through a round dozen of months 
presented dead against you? If I could work my 
will, every idiot who goes about with " Merry Christ- 
mas " on his lips, should be boiled with his own pud- 
ding, and buried with a stake of holly through his 
heart. He should. 

F'red. Uncle ! 

Scrooge. Nephew, keep Christmas in your own 
way, and let me keep it in mine. 

Fred. Keep it ! But you don't keep it. 

Scrooge. Let me leave it alone, then. Much good 
may it do you ! ' Much good it has ever done you ! 

Fred. There are many things from which I might 
have derived good, by which I have not profited, I dare 
say, Christmas among the rest. But I am sure I have 
always thought of Christmas time, when it has come 
round, — apart from the veneration due to its sacred 
name and origin, if anything belonging to it can be 
apart from that, — as a good time ; a kind, forgiving, 
charitable, pleasant time ; the only time I know of, 
in the long calendar of the year, when men and wo- 
men seem, by one consent, to open their shut-up 
hearts freely, and to think of people below them as if 
they really were fellow-passengers to the grave, and 
not another race of creatures bound on other journeys. 
And, therefore, uncle, though it has never put a scrap 



MERRY CHRISTMAS. 1 3 

of gold .or silver in my pocket, I believe that it has 
done me good, and will do me good ; and I say, God 
bless it ! (Bob Cratchit applazcds.) 

Scrooge. {Turning towards Bob's room.) Let 
me hear another sound from you and you'll keep your 
Christmas by losing your situation. ( To Fred.) You're 
quite a powerful speaker, sir, I wonder you don't go 
into Parliament. 

Tred. Don't be angry, uncle. Come 1 Dine with 
us to-morrow. 

Scrooge. I'll see you hanged first. 

Fred. But why? Why? 

Scrooge. Why did you get married ? 

Fred. Because I fell in love. 

Scrooge. ( Grozvling.) Because you fell in love ! 
Good afternoon ! 

Fred. Nay, uncle, but you never came to see me 
before that happened. Why give it as a reason for 
not coming now? 

Scrooge. Good afternoon ! 

Fred. I want nothing from you ; I ask nothing of 
you. Why cannot we be friends? 

Scrooge. Good afternoon ! 

Fred. I am sorry, with all my heart, to find you 
so resolute. We have never had any quarrel, to which 
I have been a party. But I have made the trial in 
homage to Christmas, and I'll keep my Christmas hu- 
mor to the last. So a Merry Christmas, uncle ! 

Scrooge. Good afternoon ! 

Fred. And a Happy New Year! {Passes out 
through the clerk's office.) A Merry Christmas, Mr. 
Cratchit ! 

jSod. A Merry Christmas to rou^ sir ! 



H 



DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 



Scrooge. There's another fellow, my clerk, with 
fifteen shillings a week, and a wife and family, talking 
about a Merry Christmas. I'll retire to Bedlam. 

Enter a Gentleman, hat in ha7id. 

Visitor. (^Looking at his list.) Scrooge and Mar- 
ley, I believe. Have I the pleasure of addressing Mr. 
Scrooge, or Mr. Marley } 

Scrooge. Mr. Marley has been dead these seven 
years. He died seven years ago this very night. 

Visitor. {Handi?zg his papers to S.) We have 
no doubt his liberality is well represented by his sur- 
viving partner. (Scrooge frowns., shakes his head., 
and hands back the papers.) At this festive season 
of the year, Mr. Scrooge {taking up a pen)^ it is 
more than usually desirable that we should make some 
slight provision for the poor and destitute, who suffer 
greatly at the present time. Many thousands are in 
want of common necessaries ; hundreds of thousands 
are in want of common comforts, sir. 

Scrooge. Are there no prisons.? 

Visitor. (^Laying down the pen.) Plenty of 
prisons. 

Scrooge. And the union work-houses, are they still 
in operation? 

Visitor. They are. Still, I wish I could say they 
were not. 

Scrooge. The tread-mill and the Poor Law are in 
full vigor, then } 

Visitor, Both very busy, sir. 

Scrooge. O, I was afraid, from what you said at 
first, that something had occurred to stop them in their 
useful course. I am very glad to hear it. 



MERRY CHRISTMAS. I5 

Visitor. Under the impression that they scarcely 
furnish Christian cheer of mind or body to the multi- 
tude, a few of us are endeavoring to raise a fund to buy 
the poor some meat and drink, and means of warmth. 
We choose this time, because it is a time, of all others, 
when Want is keenly felt, and Abundance rejoices. 
What shall I put 5^ou down for.'' 

Scrooge. Nothing. 

Visitor. You wish to be anonymous ? 

Scrooge. I wish to be left alone. Since you ask me 
what I wish, sir, that is my answer. I don't make 
merry myself at Christmas, and I can't afford to make 
idle people merry. I help to support the establish- 
ments I have mentioned — they cost enough ; and 
those who are badly off must go there. 

Visitor. Many can't go there ; and many would 
rather die. 

Scrooge. If they would rather die, they had better 
do it, and decrease the surplus population. Besides, 
— excuse me, — I don't know that. 

Visitor. But you might know it. 

Scrooge. It's not my business. It's enough for a 
man to understand his own business, and not to inter- 
fere with other people's. Mine occupies me constant- 
ly. Good afternoon, sir ! {Exit Gentleman.) Six 
o'clock, Cratchit ; time to shut up. (Cratchit simffs 
catidle., puts 07i his hat^ and appears at his door.) 
You'll want all day to-morrow, I suppose. 

Cratchit. If quite convenient, sir. 

Scrooge. It's not convenient, and it's not fair. If 
I was to stop half a crown for it, you'd think yourself 
ill used, I'll be bound. (C. S7niles.) And yet you 



l6 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

don't think 7ne ill used, when I pay a day's wages for 
no work. 

Crat. It's only once a year, sir. 

Scrooge. A poor excuse for picking a man's pock- 
et every twenty-fifth of December ! (^Buttons his 
coat to the chi7z.) But I suppose you must have the 
whole day. Be here all the earlier next morning. 

Cj-at. I will, sir. (Scrooge goes out^ grumbli?ig.) 

\_ Curtain. 



Note. — For the presentation of the "visions," which 
form a part of the three following Scenes, the stage must be 
divided by a "flat" running from side to side, and separat- 
ing Scrooge's room, which is in front, from the space be- 
hind, in which the pictures are to be placed. In the centre 
of this flat (which must be painted with some light color, to 
represent the wall of Scrooge's room) is an arch, occupying 
about two thirds of the width of the stage. The arch is cov- 
ered by a curtain (of the same color as the flat), madts to 
roll up. Greater depth can be given to the pictures by 
stretching a gauze across the arch behind the curtain. If 
the stage is not deep enough to allow of this arrangement, 
Scrooge and the Ghost must go off", and the drop-curtain must 
fall in each scene before the visions appear. Thej will then 
station themselves one on each side of the stage, before 
"ringing up; " the curtain will rise, and the visions will ap- 
pear on the full stage. In this case the furniture of Scrooge's 
room must be removed, and slight changes made in the text, 
so that Scrooge may leave his chamber with each of the 
Spirits. The whole may be made more effective by intro- 
ducing soft music, appropriate to each scene, as the curtain 
rises and falls upon each vision. 



MERRY CHRISTMAS. I 7 



Marley's Ghost. 

Scene : Scrooge's Chamber, shabbily furnished. R. 
a door; L. a Jireplace; tin sauce-pan on the hob; 
R. a bed^ with curia iiis {pr^ simply^ curtains^ so 
hung as to seem to conceal a bed) ; o?? the le.ft^ 
Scrooge, i^z dressing-gown^ slippers^ a7zd nigJit- 
cap^ and without his cravat^ dozes in an arm- 
chair. Suddenly bells are heard on every side; 
Scrooge wakes zuith a start ; bells cease ringing; 
begin again furiously ^ then stop altogether. The 
clanking of a heavy chain succeeds; a heavy tread 
without ; door opens R., and Ghost of Marley 
eitters. (See Index.) It advances., and stops a few 
paces from Scrooge, who stares at it in terror. 

Scrooge. How now ; what dp you want with me } 

Ghost. Much ! 

Scrooge. Who are you ? 

Ghost. Ask me who I was. 

Scrooge. (^Louder.) Who if £?r^ you, then. ^ Vou're 
particular for a shade. 

Ghost. In life I was your partner, Jacob Marley. 

Scrooge. (^Doubtfully.) Can you — can you — 
sit down ? 

Ghost. I can. 

Scrooge. Do it then. (G. sits on a stool facing S.) 

Ghost. You don't believe in me. 

Scrooge. I don't. 

Ghost. What evidence would you have of my re- 
ality beyond that of your own senses? 
2 



1 8 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

Scrooge. I don't know. 

Ghost. Why do you doubt your senses . 

Sci'ooge. Because a little thing afxects them. A 
slieht disorder of the stomach makes them cheats. 
You may be an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mus- 
tard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of an underdone 
potato. There's more of gravy than of grave about 
you, whatever you are! You see this toothpick? 

Ghost. (^Looking steadily at ScKOOG'E.) I do. 

Sci'ooge. You are not looking at it. 

Ghost. But I see it, notwithstanding. 

Scrooge. Well ! I have but to swallow this, and 
be for the rest of my days persecuted by a legion of 
goblins, all of my own creation. Humbug, I tell 
you; Humbug! (Ghost cries out ^ and shakes its 
chain. ScnooGKyalts upon his knees., and clasps his 
hands.) Mercy! Dreadful apparition, why do you 
trouble me? 

Ghost. Man of the worldly mind, do you believe 
in me or not? 

Scrooge. I do ! I must ! But why do spirits walk 
the earth, and why do they come to me? 

. Ghost. It is required of every man that the spirit 
within him should walk abroad among his fellow- 
men, and travel far and wide ; and if that spirit goes 
not forth in life, it is condemned to do so after death. 
It is doomed to wander through the world, — O, 
woe is me! — and witness what it cannot share, but 
might have shared on earth, and turned to happiness ! 
( Cries out^ shakes its chain again., and zv rings its 
hands.) 

Scrooge. (^Treinbling.) You are fettered. Tell 
me why? 



MERRY CHRISTMAS. 1 9 

Ghost. I wear the chain I forged in life. I girded 
it on of my own free will, and of my own free will I 
wore it. Is its pattern strange to you? Or would 
you know the weight and length of the strong coil you 
bear yourself? It was full as heavy and as long as 
this, seven Christmas eves ago. You have labored on 
it since. It is a ponderous chain ! (S. glances about 
him on the Jiooj'.) 

Scrooge. ^Imploi'ingly.) Jacob! Old Jacob Mar- 
ley, tell me more. Speak comfort to me, Jacob ! 

Ghost. I have none to give. It comes from other 
regions, Ebenezer Scrooge, and is conveyed by other 
ministers, to other kinds of men. Nor can I tell you 
what I would. A very little more, is all permitted to 
me. I cannot rest ; I cannot stay ; I cannot linger 
anywhere. My spirit never walked beyond our count- 
ing-house. Mark me! — in life my spirit never roved 
beyond the narrow limits of our money-changing hole; 
and weary journeys lie before me. (S. still on his 
knees^ puts his hands in his pockets and ponders.^ 

Scrooge. You must have been very slow about it, 
Jacob. 

Ghost. Slow ! 

Scrooge. {Musingly.) Seven years dead, and trav- 
elling all the time? 

Ghost, The whole time. No rest, no peace. In- 
cessant torture of remorse. 

Scrooge. You travel fast? 

Ghost. On the wings of the wind. 

Scrooge. You might have got over a great quanti- 
ty of ground in seven years. 

Ghost. {Cla?iki?2g its chain, and uttering another 
cry.) O, captive bound, and double-ironed, not to 



20 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

know that ages of incessant labor by immortal crea- 
tures for this earth, must pass into eternity, before the 
good of which it is susceptible is all developed. Not 
to know that any Christian spirit, working kindly in 
its little sphere, whatever it may be, will find its mor- 
tal life too short for its vast means of usefulness. Not 
to know that no space of regret can make amends for 
one life's opportunities misused ! Yet such was I ! O I 
such was I ! 

Sc7'ooge. But you were always a good man of busi- 
ness, Jacob. 

Ghost. ( Wi'ifiging its ha?zds.) Business ! Man- 
kind was my business. The common welfare was my 
business ; charity, mercy, forbearance, and benevo- 
lence, were all my business. The dealings of my trade 
were but a drop of water in the comprehensive ocean 
of my business. {Raises his chaifi^ and throws it 
down again.) At this time of the rolling year, I 
sufier most. Why did I walk through crowds of fel- 
low-beings with my eyes turned down, and never 
raise them to that blessed star which led the Wise Men 
to a poor abode ! Were there no poor homes to which 
its liglit would have conducted me^ (S. trembles.) 
Hear me ! My time is nearly gone. 

Scrooge. I will. But don't be hard upon me ! 
Don't be flow^ery, Jacob, pray ! 

Ghost. How it is that I appear before you, in a 
shape that you can see, I may not tell. I have sat in- 
visible beside you many and many a day. (S. shud- 
ders.) Tiiat is no light part of my penance. I am 
here to-night to warn you that you have yet a chance 
and hope of escaping my fote. A chance and hope 
of my procuring, Ebenezer. 



MERRY CHRISTMAS. 21 

Scrooge. You were always a good friend to me. 
Thank'ee ! 

Ghost. You will be haunted by three spirits. 
Scrooge. (yFalteringly.) Is that — the chance — 
and hope — you mentioned, Jacob ? 
Ghost. It is. 

Scrooge. I, — I think I'd rather not. 
Ghost. Without their visits, you cannot hope to 
shun the path I tread. Expect the first to-morrow, 
when the bell tolls One. 

Scrooge. Couldn't I take 'em all at once, and have 
it over, Jacob ? 

Ghost. Expect the second on the next night at the 
same hour ; the third upon the next night when the 
last stroke of Twelve has ceased to vibrate. Look to 
see me no more ; and look that, for your own sake, 
you remember what has passed between us. 

[G. zvinds the chain rou7td his ar?n., rises aiid 
walks slozvly backzvard towards the door. 
Music. S. rises from his knees and fol- 
lozvs. When G. reaches the door^ it raises 
its hand. S. stops., with hands clasped^ 
and raised supplicatingly ; G. vanishes., 
a?id S.ya/ls heavily on the floor. Curtain, 



22 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 



" Christmas Past." 

Scene, the same. Titne^ night; Scrooge again 
asleep before the Jire. A bell strikes Oite; the 
room is suddenly Jilled with lights and the Ghost 
OF Christmas Past (See Index) sta^ids behind 
Scrooge, who wakes with a start. 

Scrooge. Are you the Spirit, sir, whose coming 
was foretold to me.? 

Ghost. I am. 

Scrooge. Who and what are you ? 

Ghost. I am the Ghost of Christmas Past. 

Scrooge. Long Past? 

Ghost. No. Your Past. 

Scrooge. May I ask what business brings you 
here } 

Ghost. Your welfare. 

Scrooge. Thank you ; but a night of unbroken 
rest would be more conducive to that end. 

Ghost. Your reclamation, then. Take heed ! Rise, 
now, and see what I would show you. {They turn 
towards the back ; — Alusic ; — the curtain rises slow- 
ly., and shows Vision I. : a room^ in which is a boy 
seated at a desk. He has before him a book con- 
taining large illustrations. As he tur7is the leaves ., 
Scrooge leans eagerly fo7'ward^ and looks at the 
pictures. The Spirit watches Scrooge.) 

Scrooge. {Excitedly.) Why, it's Ali Baba ! it's 
dear, old, honest Ali Baba ! Yes, yes, I know. One 
Christmas time, when yonder solitary child was left 
here all alone, he did come, for the first time, just like 



MERRY CHRISTMAS. 23 

thnt. Poor boy ! and Valentine, and his wild brother, 
Orson ; there they go ! And what's his name, who 
was put down in his drawers, asleep, at the gate of 
Damascus; don't you see him? And the Sultan's 
groom turned upside down by the Genii ; there he is 
upon his head ! Served him right ! I'm glad of it ! 
What business had he to be married to the princess ! 
(lijfore excitedly^ half laughing^ half crying^ There's 
the parrot ! Green body and yellow tail, — tliere he 
is ! ' Poor Robin Crusoe,' he called him when he 
came home again, after sailing round the island. Poor 
Robin Crusoe, where have you been, Robin Crusoe.'' 
The man thought he was dreaming, but he wasn't. It 
was the parrot, you know. There goes Friday, run- 
ning for his life to the little creek ! Halloa ! Whoop ! 
Halloo ! (^Dropping his voice.) Poor boy ! ( Cur- 
tain falls slozvly.) I wish — {puts his hand in his 
pocket) — but it's too late now. . 

Ghost, (l.) What is the matter ? 

Scrooge, (r.) Nothing — nothing! There was a 
boy singing a Christmas carol at my door last night. 
I should like to have given him something, that's all. 

Ghost. {Smiling and waving its hand.) Let 
us see another Christmas. 

\_Music. Curtain rises on Vision II. The 
same room. The boy pacing the foor i?n- 
patie?itly ; a door opens ^ R., and a little 
girl enters^ runs to hijn^ and embraces 
him. 

Fanny, (r. c.) Dear, dear, brother ! I have come 
to bring you home ; to bring you home, home, home ! 
( Claps her hands.) 

Ebe7i. (l. c.) Home, little Fan? 



24 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

Panizy. Yes, home for good and all ; home for- 
ever and ever. Father is so much kinder than he used 
to be, that home is like heaven. He spoke so gently 
to me one night when I was going to bed, that I was 
not afraid to ask him if you might come home, and he 
said, Yes, you should, and sent me in a coach to bring 
you. And you're to be a man ! And are never to come 
back here ; but first, we are to be together all the 
Christmas long, and have the merriest time in all the 
world. 

Ebeh. You're quite a woman, little Fan! {^She 
claps her hands and laughs^ tries to touch his head^ 
and stands on tiptoe to embrace him. She then leads 
him out. Czirtain.) 

Ghost. Always a delicate creature, whom a breath 
might have withered ; but she had a large heart. 

Scrooge. So she had ; you're right. I will not 
gainsay it, Spirit. God forbid ! 

Ghost. She died a woman, and had, as I think, 
children. 

Scrooge. One child. 

Ghost. True, your nephew. 

Scrooore. Yes. 

o 

Ghost. (^Pointing.) Look! (^Curtain rises on 
Vision III. A young lady., in mourning., seated c. ; 
a young man stands near her.) 

Belle. It matters little, Eben, to you, very little. 
Another idol has displaced me, and if it can cheer and 
comfort you in time to come, as I would have tried to 
do, I have no just cause to grieve. 

Eben. What idol has displaced you.^ 

Belle. A eolden one. 



MERRY CHRISTMAS. 2^ 

Ehen. This is the even-handed dealing of the 
world ! There is nothing on which it is so hard as 
poverty ; and there is nothing it professes to condemn 
with such severity as the pursuit of wealth. 

Belle. You fear the world too much. All your 
other hopes have merged into the hope of being be- 
yond the chance of its sordid reproach. I have seen 
your nobler aspirations fall off, one by one, until the 
master passion. Gain, engrosses you — have I not? 

Ebe7i. What then? Even if I have grown so 
much wiser — what then? I am not changed towards 
you. {^She shakes her head.) Am I? 

Belle. Our contract is an old one. It was made 
when we were both poor, and content to be so, until 
in good season we could improve our worldly fortune 
by our patient industry. You a7'e changed. When 
it was made, you were another man. 

Eben. I was a boy. 

Belle. Your own feeling tells you that you were 
not what you are. /am. That which promised hap- 
piness when we were one in heart, is fraught with 
misery now that we are two. How often and how 
keenly I have thought of this, I will not say. It is 
enough that I have thought of it, and can release 3'ou. 

Eben. Have I ever sought release ? 

Belle. In words, no — never ! 

Eben. In what, then? 

Belle. In a changed nature ; in an altered spirit ; 
in another atmosphere of life ; another hope as its 
great end. In everything that made ni}' love of any 
worth or value in your sight. If this had never been 



26 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

between us, tell me, would you seek me out and tiy 
to win me now ? Ah, no ! 

Ebett. You think not. 

Belle. I would gladly think otherwise if I could, 
Heaven knows ! When / have learned a truth like 
this, I know how strong and irresistible it must be. 
If you were free to-day, to-morrow, yesterd^iy, can 
even / believe you would choose a dowerless girl? 
You who, in your very confidence with her, weigh 
everything by Gain ; or, choosing her, if for a moment 
you were false enough to your one guiding principle 
to do so, do I not know that your repentance and re- 
gret would surely follow? I do, and I release you, 
with a full heart, for the love of him you once were. 
May you be happy in the life that you have chosen. 
i^She turns avjay. Cut'tain.) 

Scrooge. Spirit, show me no more ! Why do you 
delight to torment me? 

Ghost. One shadow more. 

Scrooge. No more ! I wish to see no more ! I 
cannot bear it. {J^alls into a chair ^ r. c, with Ms 
arms 07i the back^ and his head resting on his arms.) 

Ghost. I told you that these were shadows of the 
things that have been. That they are what they are, 
do not blame me. 

Scrooge. ( Waving his hand ) Leave me ! Leave 
me ! haunt me no longer. {Spirit vanishes., L. Cur- 
tain^ 



MERRY CHRISTMAS. 



27 



" Christmas Present." 

Scene : the same. Scrooge, as before^ in his chair 
R., but not sleeping. Bell strikes one. Enter., l., 
Ghost of Christmas Present. (See Index.) 
Scrooge haiigs his head. 

Ghost, (c.) I am the Ghost of Christmas Present. 
Look upon me. (Scrooge looks up.) You have never 
seen the hke of me before ! 

Scrooge. Never. 

Ghost. Have never walked forth with the vouno-er 
members of my family ; meaning (for I am very young) 
my elder brothers, born in these later years? 

Scrooge. I don't think I have. I am afraid I have 
not. Have you had many brothers, Spirit.? 

Ghost. More than eighteen hundred. 

Scrooge. {Aside.) A tremendous family to provide 
for. Spirit, show me what you will. Last night I 
learned a lesson, which is working now. To-night, 
if you have aught to teach me, let me profit by it. 

Ghost. {Pointing.) Look ! ( They retire to op- 
posite sides of the stage. Curtai?z rises on Vision 
IV. Bob Cratchit's kitchen. Mrs. C, with the 
assistance of two or inore children., laying the table.) ' 

Mrs. C. What has ever got your precious father 
then } and your brother. Tiny Tim ? and Martha wasn't 
as late last Christmas Day, by half an hour. 

Martha. {Appearing at the door, c.) Here's 
Martha, mother ! 

Children. Here's Martha, mother. Hurra! There's 
such a goose, Martha ! 



28 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

Mrs, C. Why, bless your heart ahve, my dear, how 
hite you are ! {Kisses her^ a?zd takes off her bonnet 
and shawl. ^ 

Mar. We'd a deal of v/ork to finish up last night, 
and had to clear away this morning, mother. 

Mrs. C. Well ! never mind, so long as you are 
come. Sit ye down before the fire, my dear, and have 
a warm. Lord bless ye ! 

Chil. No, no, there's father coming. Hide, Mar- 
tha, hide ! {She hides ^ l. Enter Bob Cratchit, c. 
Tiny Tim, holding a crutch^ sits on his shoulder.) 

Bob, {Looking about.) Why, where's our Mar- 
tha.? 

Mrs. C. Not coming. 

Bob. {Putti7zg Tim dozvn.) Not coming ! Not 
coming, upon Christmas Day.'' (Martha cojnes out 
aitd embraces her father .) 

Mrs. C. And how did little Tim behave.? 

Bob. As good as gold, and better. Somehow he 
gets thoughtful, sitting by himself so much, and thinks 
the strangest things you ever heard. He told me, 
coming home, that he hoped the people saw him in 
the church, because he was a cripple, and it might 
be pleasant to them to remember, upon Christmas 
Day, who made lame beggars walk and blind men 
see; but he is growing strong and hearty now — is 
little Tim. 

[Bob mixes a jug of punch. The goose is 
brought in., r. They place themselves at 
table. Tiny TixM next to his father. 
Bob begins to cai've the goose. The 
children strike the table with the han- 
dles of their knives., and cry '^ Hurr.^ ' " 



MERRY CHRISTMAS. 20 

Remarks are 7nade on the size, tender- 
ness, flavor, cheapness, dc, of the goose. 
At last the pujich is brought on and the 
glasses arefllled. 
Bob. A Merry Christinas to us all, my dears I God 
bless us ! 

All. Merry Christmas to all — 
Tim. God bless us, every one ! (Bob tahes his 
hand afl^ectionately.) 

Scrooge, (r.) Spirit, tell me if Tiny Tim will live. 
Ghost, (l.) I see a vacant seat in the poor chimney 
corner, and a crutch v^ithout an ov^ner, carefully pre- 
served. If these shadows remain unaltered by the 
Future, the child will die. 

Scrooge. No, no! Q, no, kind Spirit! Say he 
will be spared. 

Ghost. If these shadows remain unaltered by the 
Future, none otlier of my race will find him here. 
What then.? If he be like to die, he had better do it, 
and decrease the surplus population. (Scrooge ha7igs 
his head) Man, —if man you be in heart, not ada- 
mant, forbear that wicked cant until you have dis- 
covered what the surplus is, and where it is. Will 
you decide what men shall live, what men shall 
die.? 

Bob. {Filliiig his glass.) Mr. Scrooge! Til give 
you Mr. Scrooge, the founder of the feast ! 

Mrs. C. The founder of the feast, indeed ! I wish 
I had him here. I'd give him a piece of my mind 
to feast upon, and I hope he'd, have a good appetite 
for it. 

Bob. My dear, — the children ! Christmas Day \ 



30 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

Mrs. C. It should be Christmas Day, I am sure, 
on which one drinks the health of. such an odious, 
stingy, hard, unfeehng man as Mr. Scrooge. You 
know he is, Robert. Nobody knows it better than 
you do, poor fellow ! 

Bob. My dear, — Christmas Day ! 
Mr. C. I'll drink his health for your sake, and the 
Day's, not for his. Long life to him ! A Merry Christ- 
mas and a Happy New Year ! He'll be very merry 
and very happy, I ve no doubt. ( They drink. Cm-- 
tain falls slowly. Music .^ to allozv time to prepare 
the next scene. When all is ready., hearty laughter 
is heard without., aitd the curtain rises o?i Vision 
V. Room in house of Scrooge's nephew., Fred. 
Present., Fred and his wife; his sister., and Mr. 
Topper, with other friends. They are seated abotit 
a table., o7i which are a decanter and glasses^ and 
playing the ganie., " What is my Thought TikeP^') 
Fred, (r.) I am thinking of an animal. 

\_Here the company ask him questions in 
rapid succession., to each of which Fred 
replies.^ simply., Tes or No. For in- 
stance: A live animal? Ans. Tes. A 
disagreeable aninial? Ans. Tes. A sav- 
age one? Tes. Does he growl? grunt? 

talk? live i7i ? walk about the 

streets? Ans. to each., Tes. Ever ?nade 
a show of? Ans. No. Ever led by 
anybody? No. Ever killed in a mar- 
ket? No. Is it a cow., a tiger., a bear., a 
cat., &c.? No., no., no., Sc. Uproarious 
laughter throughout. 



MERRY CHRISTMAS. 3I 

Sister, (r. c.) /have found it out! 1 know what 
it is, Fred ! I know what it is ! 

I^rcd. What is it? 

Sister. It's your uncle Scro-o-o-oge ! 

Pred. Yes, it is. And what do you think he said 
to me yesterday ? Ha, ha ! Ha-ha-ha-ha! Said that 
Christmas was a humbug, as I Hve ! {Hearty laugh- 
ter.^ He beheved it, too ! 

Wife, (l.) More shame for him, Fred. 

Bred. He's a comical old fellow, that's the truth. 
However, his offences carry their own punishment, 
and I have nothing to say against him. 

Wife. I'm sure he's very rich, Fred. At least you 
always tell me so. 

Fred. What of that, my dear? His wealth is of 
no use to him. He don't do any good with it. He 
don't make himself comfortable with it. He hasn't 
the satisfaction of thinking — ha, ha, ha — that he's 
ever going to benefit us with it. 

Wife. 1 have no patience with him. 

Fred, O, I have. I'm sorry for him. I couldn't 
be angry with him, if I tried. Who suffers by his ill 
whims? Himself, always. Here he takes it into his 
head to dislike us, and he won't come and dine with 
us. What's the consequence? He don't lose much 
of a dinner. 

Wife. Indeed, I think he loses a very good dinner. 

Fred. Well, I'm very glad to hear it, because I 
haven't any great faith in these young housekeepers. 
What ^o you say. Topper? 

Topper, (l. c.) {Laughing:) A bachelor, Fred, 



32 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

is a wretched outcast, who has no right to express an 
opinion on such a subject. 

Wife. Do go on, Fred. He never finishes what 
he begins to say. He is such a ridiculous fellow ! 
i^Laughtei'.^ 

Pred. I was only going to say that the consequence 
of his taking a dislike to us, and not making merr}- with 
us, is, as I think, that he loses some pleasant moments, 
which could do him no harm. I am sure he loses 
pleasanter companions than he can find in his own 
thoughts, either in his mouldy old oflice, or his dusty 
chambers. I mean to give him the same chance every 
year, whether he likes it or not, for I pity him. He 
may rail at Christmas till he dies, but he can't help 
thinking better of it — I defy him — if he finds me 
going there in good temper, year after year, and saying, 
*' Uncle Scrooge, how are you?" If it only puts him 
in the vein to leave his poor clerk fifty pounds, that's 
something ; and I think I shook him yesterday. 
{^Laughter. He f asses the bottle.^ He has given 
us plenty of merriment, I am sure, and it would be 
ungrateful not to drink his health. Here is a glass of 
mulled wine, ready to our hand at the moment. I say, 
" Uncle Scrooge ! " 

All. Well! Uncle Scrooge ! {They drink.) 
JRi'ed. A Merry Christmas and Happy New Year 
to the old man, whatever he is ! He wouldn't take it 
from me, but may he have it, nevertheless. Uncle 
Scrooge ! 

[Scrooge leans eagerly forward.^ as if to 
speak to Fred, when the front curtain 
falls. 



merry christmas. 3-5 

" Christmas Yet To Come." 
Scene, as before. 

Enter ^ l., Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come. 
(See Index.) Scrooge sinks on his knees^ as the 
S pi 7' it approuches him. 

Scrooge, (r.) I am in the presence of the Ghost of 
Christmas Yet To Come ? (Ghost bows.) You are 
about to show me the shadows of the things that have 
not happened, but will happen in the time before us, — 
Is that so, Spirit.? (Ghost bozvs. Scrooge rises^ r.) 
Ghost of the Future ! I fear you more than any spec- 
tre I have seen. But I know your purpose is to do me 
good, and I hope to live to be another man from what I 
w^as. Will you not speak to me? 

[Ghost, l., points to back of stage., where 
the curtain is rising on Vision VI. 

Enter .^ r. and -l.., tzvo gentlemen. 

Mr, A, How are you ? 

Mr. B. How are you.? {They shake hands.) 

Mr, A, Well, Old Scratch has got his own at 
last, eh.? 

Mr. B. So I'm told. What was. the matter with 
him.? I thought he'd never die. 

Air. A. I don't know much about it. I only know 
he's dead. 

Mr. B. When did he die? 

Mr. A. Last night, I believe. 

Mr. B. What has he done with his money? 
3 



34 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

Jlfr. A. {Tazu7zlng:) I haven't heard. Left it to 
his company, perhaps. He hasn't left it to me, that's 
all I know. {Both laugh.) It's likely to be a very 
cheap funeral, for, upon my life, I don't know of any- 
body to go to it. Suppose we make up a party and 
volunteer .f^ 

Mr. B. I don't mind going if a lunch is provided ; 
but I must be fed if I make one. {Laugh.') 

Mr. A. Well, I am more disinterested than that, 
for I never wear black gloves, and I never eat lunch. 
But I'll offer to go if anybody else will. When I 
come to tlnnk of it, I'm not at all sure that I wasn't his 
most particular friend ; for we used to stop and speak 
whenever we met. Cold, isn't it ! Seasonable for 
Christmas time. You are not a skater, I suppose.? 

Mr. B. No, no. Something else to think of. 
Good morning ! \_Exeunt. 

Froitt curtain. Music. 

Vision VII. A pawnbroker' s shop; r., a gray- 
haired mait behiizd a tattered curtain. Oil lamp 
on the counter before him. 

Enter.^ i>., two women with bundles.^ which they 
throw on the floor. They stand and stare at each 
other., and at Joe., and all three burst into a laugh. 

Mrs. C. Let the charwoman alone to be the first! 
Let the laundress alone to be the second ! Look here, 
old Joe, here's a chance ! If we two haven't met here 
without meaning it ! 

yoe. You couldn't have met in a better place — stop 
till I shut the door. ( Co??ies out.) Ah, how it skreeks ! 



MERRY CHRISTMAS. 35 

There ain't such a rusty bit of metal in the place as it's 
own hinges, I believe ; and I'm sure there's no such 
old bones here as mine. Ha, ha ! We're all suitable 
to our calling ; we're well matched. ( The women 
sit down and stai-e at each other}) 

Mrs. C. (l. c.) What odds, then ! What odds, Mrs. 
Dilber.f* Every person has a right to take care of 
themselves. He always did. 

Mrs. £>. (r. c.) That's true, indeed ! No man 
more so. 

Mrs. C. Why then, don't stare at me as if you 
was afraid, woman. Who's the wiser? We are not 
going to pick holes in each other's coats, I suppose ! 

Mrs. D. No, indeed ! We should hope not. 

Airs. C. Ver}' well, then ! That's enough ; who's 
the worse for the loss of a few things like these.? Not 
a dead man, I suppose ? 

Mrs. D. {Laughijig.^ No, indeed ! 

Mrs, C. If he wanted to keep 'em after he was 
dead, a wicked old screw, why wasn't he natural in 
his lifetime.'' If he had been, he'd have had some- 
body to look after him w^hen he was struck with 
death, instead of lying gasping out his last there, 
alone by himself. 

Airs. D. It's the truest word that ever was spoke. 
It's a judgment on him. 

Airs. C. I wish it was a little heavier judgment ; 
and it should have been, you may depend upon it, if I 
could have laid my hands on anything else. Open 
that bundle, old Joe, and let me know the value of it. 
Speak out plain. I'm not afraid to be the first, nor 
afraid for her to see it. We knew pretty well that we 



36 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

were helping ourselves, before we met here, I believe. 
It's no sin. Open the bundle, Joe. (Joe kneels^ c, and 
unties bundle; draws out Scrooge's bed curtains.) 

yoe. What do you call this? Bed curtains ! • 

Mrs. C. {^Laughing^ • Ah, bed curtains ! 

Joe, You don't mean to say you took 'em down 
rings and all, with him lying there? 

Mrs. C. Yes, I do. Why not ? 

Joe. You were born to make your fortune, and 
you'll certainly do it. 

Mrs. C. I certainly shan't hold my hand, when I can 
get anything in it by reaching it out, for the sake of 
such a man as he was, I promise you, Joe. {Jok pui/s 
out blankets; examines thejn^ holding lamp in one 
hand.) Don't drop that oil upon the blankets, now. 

yoe. His blankets } 

Mrs. C. Whose else's do you think ? He isn't like- 
ly to take cold without 'em, I dare say. 

yoe. (^Looking up.) I hope he didn't die of any- 
thing catching, eh ? 

Mrs. C. Don't you be afraid of that. I ain't so 
fond of his company that I'd loiter about him for such 
things, if he did. (Joe holds up a shirt and exam- 
ines it.) Ah ! you may look through that shirt till 
your eyes ache ; but you won't find a hole in it, nor a 
threadbare place. It's the best he had, and a fine one 
too. They'd have wasted it, if it hadn't been for me. 

yoe. What do you call wasting of it.^ 

Mrs. C. Putting it on him to be buried in, to be 
sure. Somebody was fool enough to do it, but I took 
it off again. If calico ain't good enough for such a 
purpose, it isn't good enough for anything. It's quite 



MERRY CHRISTMAS. 37 

as becoming to the body. He can't look uglier than 
he did in that one. (Joe cJialks tJie items on the zvall 
and sums t/iem 7cp.) 

Joe. That's your account, and I wouldn't give 
another sixpence if I was to be boiled for not doing 
it. {To Mrs. D.) Now for you, ma'am. {Opens 
her bundle and takes out sheets^ iveariitg appai'el^ 
boots ^ d'C, a7zd chalks her account on the wall.) I 
always give too much to ladies. It's a weakness of 
mine, and that's the way I ruin myself. That's your 
account. If you asked me for another j^enny, and 
made it an open question, I'd repent of being so liber- 
al, and knock off half a crown. {Draivs Jlannel bag 
fro7n his pocket and pays the women.) 

Mrs. C. Ha, ha ! This is the end of it, you see ! 
He frightened every one away from him when he was 
alive, to profit us when he was dead ! Ha, ha, ha ! 
( Vision vanishes. Ghost and Scrooge, r.) 

Scrooge. {Shuddering.) Spirit, I see, I see ! The 
case of this unhappy man might be my own. My life 
tends that way, now. Good Spirit, let me see some 
tenderness connected with a death, -or these dark scenes 
will be forever present to me. 

Ghost. Follow me, then. 

\^Exeunt, L. Front curtain. Music. 
The izext scene being set^ curtain rises. 

Enter Ghost, ^.^ pointing to back of stage. Scrooge 
follows — back curtain rises on Vision VIII. 
Room in Bob Cratchit's house. Mrs. C., Pe- 
ter, and Belinda seated 7zear the f re, l. Mrs. 
C, sewing. Peter reads from the Bible. 



38 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

Peter. "And he took a child, and set him in the 
midst of them." 

Mrs. C. {^Laying down her work^ and covering 
her eyes with her hand.) The color hurts my eyes. 
They are better now, again. It makes them weak by 
candle light ; and I wouldn't show weak eyes to your 
father when he comes home, for the world. It must 
be near his time. 

Peter. {Closing the book.) Past it, rather ; but I 
think he has walked a little slower than he used, these 
few last evenings, mother. 

]\frs. C. I have known him walk with — I have 
known him walk with Tiny Tim upon his shoulder, 
very fast indeed — 

Peter. And so have I, often. 

Mrs. C. But he was very light to carry, and his 
father loved him so, that it was no trouble — no 
trouble. {Noise outside.) And there is your father 
at the door. ( Goes out., c. d., and retur^is with Bob, 
who greets the children.) 

Bob. {Looki72g at Mrs. C.'s work.) How fast 
you work, my dear ! They will be done long before 
Sunday. 

Mrs. C. Sunday ! You went to-day, then, Robert.? 

Bob. Yes, my dear, I wish you could have gone. 
It would have done you good to see how green a place 
it is ; but you'll see it often. I promised him that I 
would walk there on a Sunday. My little, little child — 
{sobs) — my little child ! {Hurries out of the room., 
R., but soon returiis., " bright and cheerful.'^ They 
draw around thejire.) I met Mr. Scrooge's nephew 
to-day, my dear. I had never seen him but once be- 



MERRY CHRISTMAS. 39 

fore, but he was very kind to me, and seeing that I 
looked, — just a httle down, you know, — inquired 
what had happened to distress me. On which, — for 
he is the pleasantest-spoken gentleman you e\er heard, 
— I told him. " I am heartily sorry for it, Mr. Cratch- 
it," he said, " and heartily sorry for your good wife." 
By-the-by, how he ever knew that, I don't know. 

Mrs. C. Knew what, my dear.? 

Bob. Why, that you were a good wife. 

Peter. Everybody knows that. 

Bob. Very well observed, my boy. I hope they 
do. " Heartily sorry," he said, " for your good wife. 
If I can be of service to you in any way," he said, 
giving me his card, " that's where I live. Pray come 
to me." Now it wasn't for the sake of anything he 
might be able to do for us, so much as for his kind 
way^ that this was quite delightful. It really seemed 
as if he had known our Tiny Tim, and felt with us. 

Mrs. C. I'm sure he's a good soul. 

Bob. You would be sure of it, my dear, if you saw 
and spoke to him. I shouldn't be at all surprised — 
mark what I say ! — if he got Peter a better situation. 

M7's. C. Only hear that, Peter ! 

Belinda. And then Peter will be keeping company 
with some one, and setting up for himself. 

Peter. {^Laughing.^ Get along with you ! 

Bob. It's just as likely as not, one of these days ; 
thougli there's plenty of time for that, my dear. But 
however and whenever we part from one another, I am 
sure we shall none of us forget poor Tiny Tim — shall 
we? or this first parting that there was among us.'* 

All. Never, father ! 



40 



DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 



Boh. And I know, my dears, that when we recol- 
lect how patient and how mild he was, — although he 
was a little, little child, — we shall not quarrel easily 
among ourselves, and forget poor Tiny Tim in do- 
ing it. ■ 

All. No, never, father ! {^Music. They cluster 
round and embrace him. Curtain.^ 

Scrooge. Spectre, something informs me that our 
parting moment is at hand. I know it, but I know 
not how. . Then tell me what man that was whose 
death has been foreshadowed by you.'' 

Ghost. Behold! {^Solemn Music. Curtain rises 
on Vision IX. Scene : A lonely grave., * with a 
headstone bearing Scrooge's name. 

Scrooge. Merciful Heaven ! What is this.? (Ghost 
points., without speaking.^ Before I draw near to 
that stone to which you point, answer m*e one ques- 
tion. Are these the shadows of the things that Will 
be, or are they shadows of the things that May be, 
only ? (Ghost still points. Scrooge takes one or 
two steps towards the Vision., and stops., r. c.) 
Men's courses will foreshadow certain ends to which, 
if persevered in, they must lead. But if the courses be 
departed from, the ends will change. Say it ^s thus 
with what you show me ! (Ghost, l. c, points. 
Scrooge creeps towards the stone aiid reads aloud^) 
Ebenezer Scrooge ! {Staggers back.) Good God ! 
Is it then ;;?)/ death that has been foreshadowed } (Ghost 
points to hi?}i, and then back to the grave.) No, 

* This scene may be roughly painted, in distemper, and 
hung at the back of the sta^e. 



MERRY CHRISTMAS. 4I 

Spirit ! O, no, no ! Spirit ! ( Clutches at its 7'obe.) 
Hear me ! I am not the man I was. I will not be 
the man I must have been but for this intercourse. 
Why show me this, if I am past all hope? (Ghost's 
ha7id trembles, Scrooge falls before him.^ Good 
Spirit, your nature intercedes for me and pities me. 
Assure me that I yet may change these shadows you 
have shown me, by an altered life ! I will honor Christ- 
mas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year. I 
will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future. The 
Spirits of all Three shall strive within me. I will not 
shut out the lessons that they teach. O, tell me I may 
sponge away the writing on this stone ! 

\_Seizes the hand of the Ghost ; Ghost 
shakes hi7n off. Scrooge remains 07t 
his kizees^ holding up his clasped hands. 
Tableau. Music. Curtain, 



42 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 



"Never Too Late to Mend." 

Scrooge's Chamber, as in Scene II. Scrooge (^in 

dressiiig-gowii and nigJit-cap) asleep in his chair. 

He starts^ wakes^ sobbing violently^ a?zd stares 

about him. 

Scrooge. {Dreamily.) I will live in the Past, the 
Present, and the Future ! The Spirits of all Three 
shall strive within me. O Jacob Marley ! Heaven 
{drops on his knees) and the Christmas time be 
praised for this ! I say it on my knees, old Jacob ; 
on my knees ! {Looking about hif7i.) Yes, this room 
is mine ! That bed is mine ! {Jiises^ goes to his bed 
and takes hold of the curtains.) They are not torn 
down, — they are not torn down rings and alL They 
are here. I am here. The time before me is my own 
to make amends in ; and the shadows of the things that 
would have been, may be dispelled. They will be, I 
know they will be. {During this soliloquy., he is 
hastily dressing.) I don't know what to do {half 
laughing — half cry i?ig). I'm as light as a feather. 
I'm as happy as an angel. I am as merry as a school- 
boy. I'm as giddy as a drunken man. A Merry 
Christmas to everybody ! A Happy New Year to all 
the world! Halloo, here ! Whoop! Halloo! {fumps 
about the room; stops to take breath., and begins 
again.) There's the saucepan that the gruel was in. 
There's the door by which the ghost of Jacob Marley 
entered. It's all right ; it's all true ; it all happened ; 
ha, ha, ha ! I don't know what day of the month it is. 
I don't know how long I've been among the Spirits. I 



MERRY CHRISTMAS. 43 

don't know anything. I'm quite a baby. Never mind ! 
I don't care. I'd rather be a baby. Halloo ! Whoop ! 
Halloo, here ! ( Church bells heard. He runs to 
wiJidow., L., opefis it and puts out his head.) Halloo, 
below, there ! What's to-day ? 

Boy. {Outside:) Eh.? 

Scrooge. What's to-day, my fine fellow ? 

Boy. {Very loud.) To-day? Why, Christmas" 
Day ! 

Scrooge. It's Christmas Day ! I haven't missed it ! 
The Spirits have done it all in one night. They can 
do anything they like. Of course they can — of course 
they can. {To the boy.) Halloo, my fine fellow ! 

Boy. Halloo ! 

Scrooge. Do you know the poulterer's in the next 
street but one, at the corner? 

Boy. I should hope I did. 

Scrooge. {Aside.) An intelligent boy ! A re- 
markable boy ! ( To the boy.) Do you know wheth- 
er they've sold the prize turkey that was hanging up 
there ? — not the little prize turkey ; the big one .? 

Boy. What ! the one as big as me ! 

Scrooge. {Aside.) What a delightful boy ! It's a 
pleasure to talk to him. {To boy.) Yes, my buck ! 

Boy. It's hanging there now. 

Scrooge. Is it? Go and buy it ! 

Boy. Walk-ER ! 

Scrooge. No, no, I'm in earnest ! Go and buy it, 
and tell them to bring it here, that I may give them 
the directions where to take it. Come back with the 
man, and I'll give you a shilling. Come back with 
him in less than five minutes, and I'll give you half a 



44 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

crown. {Rubs his hands and ivhispet^s.) I'll send 
it to Bob Cratchit's. He shan't know who sent it. 
It's twice the size of Tiny Tim. Joe Miller never made 
such a joke as sending it to Bob's will be. ( Writes 
on a card and 'goes to window again.) Here's the 
turkey. Halloo ! Whoop ! How are you ! Merry 
Christmas ! Why, it's impossible to carry that to 
Camden Town. * You must have a cab. ( Chuckles.) 
Here, my boy ; here's your half crown. ( Chuckles.) 
And here's the address. ( Throws out card. — 
Chuckles.) And here's the money for the turkey. 
{Throws it out.) And this is to pay for the cab. 
{Throws out more jno7tey ; chuckles., foils exhausted 
into his chair and laughs till he cries; rises again^ 
And now I'll go and dine with Fred, if he'll let me in. 
What a surprise I shall give him ! What a surprise 
it will be to him ! {Exit. Curtain.) 

* The name of any town in the vicinity of the place in 
•which this piece is played, may be substituted here. 



MERRY CHRISTMAS. 45 



" The End of it All." 

Scene : Scrooge's Office. Scrooge at his desk. 
Clock points at 9.15. 

Scrooge. Quarter past nine and Bob not here yet! 
Ah, I thought I should catch him. ( Writes; then 
looks at clock., or takes out his watch.) Eighteen min- 
utes past nine, and — {^Eizter Bob in great haste.') 
Halloo ! What do you mean by coming here at this 
time of day. Bob.? {^Takes off hat and shawl, hangs 
them tip., climbs on his stool., and begiiis to write 
very fast.) 

Bob, I am very sorry, sir. I a7n behind my time. 

Scrooge. You are ! Yes, I think you are. Step 
this way, sir, if you please. 

Bob. {^Appearing at his door.) It's only once a 
year, sir. It shall not be repeated. I was making 
rather merry yesterday, sir. 

Scrooge. Now, I'll tell 3'ou what, my friend, I am 
not going to stand this sort of thing any longer. And 
therefore — {^yunips off his stool and gives Bob a 
" dig iji the ribs ") — and, therefore, I'm about to raise 
your salary ! (Bob trembles., moves off., and, seizes 
his rider, Scrooge claps him 07t the back.) A Mer- 
ry Christmas, Bob ! A merrier Christmas, Bob, my 
good fellow, than I have given you for many a year ! 
I'll raise your salarj^, and endeavor to assist your strug- 
gling family, and we will discuss your affairs this very 
afternoon over a Christmas bowl of smoking bishop, 
Bob. Make up the fires, and buy another coal scuttle 
before you dot another i, Bob Cratchit. {Curtain,) 



THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH. 






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THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH. 

[J^or a descrij)tiot} of characters and costumes., see Ifidex, at 
the end of this volume.'] 



The Carrier. 

Scene : Kitchen of John Peerybingle, the Carrier. 
At back^ a door ; left of door., a window; l., two 
doors; c, a table spread for two persons; R. 
c, a cradle; r. a Jiiy place ; kettle boiling on 
the hob; r. Mrs. P., having- made all prepara- 
tions for tea., takes the baby from the cradle. At 
that moment., enter John, c. d., with Boxer., his dog. 
He shakes the moisture fro7n his cloak., throws 
down his hat., and embraces Dot. 

Dot. O, goodness, John ! What a state you're in 
with the weather ! 

yohn. {Taking off his shawl a^td %varmi7ig his 
ha7ids.) Why, you see, Dot, it, — it ain't exactly sum- 
mer weather. So, no wonder ! 

Dot. {Pouti?7g.) I wish you wouldn't call me 
Dot, John. I don't like it. 

John. Why, what else are you? A dot, and — 
(glancing at baby)., a dot and carry, — I won't say it, 
for fear I should spoil it ; but I was very near a joke. 
I don't know as ever I was nearer. 

4 49 



50 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

Dot. (c.) (^Holdu2g tip the baby.) Ain't he beau- 
tiful, John? Don't he look precious in his sleep? 

John, (c.) Very precious, very much so. He gen- 
erally is asleep — ain't he ? 

Dot. Lor, John ! Good gracious, no ! 

yohn. {Pondering:) O ! I thought his eyes was 
generally shut, — Halloo ! 

Dot. Goodness, John, how you startle one! 

yokn. It ain't right for him to turn 'em up in that 
way ! Is it? See how he's winking with both of 'em 
at once. And look at his mouth ! Why, he's gasping 
like a gold and silver fish. 

Dot. ( With much dignity.) You don't deserve 
to be a father — you don't. But how should you know 
what little complaints children are troubled with, John? 
You wouldn't so much as know their names, you stu- 
pid fellow. {Pinches his ear.) 

yohn. {Pulling off his ovei'-coat.) No, it's very 
true, Dot. I don't know much about it. I only know 
that I've been fighting pretty stiffly with the wind to- 
night. It's been blowing north-east, straight into the 
cart, the whole way home. 

Dot. Poor old man, so it has ! {Eiiter., l., Tilly 
Slowboy.) Here, take the precious darling, Tilly, 
while I make myself of some use. Bless it, I could 
smother it with kissing it, — I could. Hie, then, good 
dog ! Hie, Boxer, boy ! {Bustling about.) Only 
let me make the tea first, John, and then I'll help you 
with the parcels, like a busy bee. " How doth the 
little," — and all the rest of it, you know, John. Did 
you ever learn : '• How doth the little," — when you 
went to school, John ? 



THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH. 5 1 

John. Not to quite know it. I was very near it 
once. But I should only have spoilt it, I dare say. 

Dot. lia, ha, ha ! what a dear old darling of a 
dunce you are, John, to be sure. (^;^// John.) There ! 
There's the tea-pot ready on the hob ! And there's 
the cold knuckle of ham ; and there's the butter ; and 
there's the crusty loaf, and all ! And here's a clothes- 
basket for the small parcels, John, if you've got any 
there. Where are you, John ? Don't let the dear child 
fall under the grate, Tilly, whatever you do ! 

\_Exit Dot, c. d., taking the basket. 

Rc-ente}'., c. Dot with John b7'inging iji the basket 
Jilled with -parcels. Cricket chirps.'^ ^hey place 
basket on the Jloor^ l. 

John. Heyday! It's merrier than ever to-night, I 
think. 

Dot. And it's sure to bring us good fortune, John. 
It always has done so. To have a cricket on the 
hearth is the luckiest thing in all the world ! The first 
time I heard its cheerful little note, John, was on that 
night when you brought me home — when you brought 
me to my new home here ; it's little mistress, nearly 
a year ago. You recollect, John ? 

yohn. O, yes, I should think so ! 

Dot. Its chirp was such a welcome to me ! It 
seemed so full of promise and encouragement. It 
seemed to say, you would be kind and gentle with me 
and would not expect (I had a fear of that, John, then) 
to find an old head on the shoulders of your foolish 

* Prompter will use a "bird-call" whistle for the cricket. 



52 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

little wife. (Jout<! pats her on the head a?zd then on the 
shoulder.') It spoke the truth, John, when it seemed 
to say so ; for you have ever been the best of husbands 
to me. This has been a hajopy home, John, and I love 
the cricket for its sake. 

John. Why, so do I, then ; so do I, Dot. 

[Dot lays her hand on his arm and looks 
into his face.^ then goes down on her 
knees., L., before the basket., and examines 
the parcels. 

Dot. There are not man}^ of them to-night, John ; 
but I saw some goods behind the cart just now ; and 
though they give more trouble, perhaps, still they pay 
as well ; *o we have no reason to grumble — have we } 
Besides, you have been delivering, I dare say, as you 
came along? 

jfohn. {^Seated before thejire., r.) O, yes, a good 
many. 

Dot. Why, what's this round box ! Heart alive, 
John, it's a wedding cake ! 

yohn. Leave a woman alone to find out that ! Now 
a man would never have thought of it, whereas it's 
my belief that if you was to pack a wedding cake up 
in a tea chest, or a turn-up bedstead, or a pickled sal- 
mon keg, or any unlikely thing, a woman would be 
sure to find it out directly. Yes ; I called for it at the 
pastry cook's. 

Dot. ( Trying to lift it.) And it weighs, I don't 
know what — whole hundredweights! Whose is it, 
John ? Where is it going ? 

yohn. Read the writing on the other side. 

Dot. Why, John ! My goodness, John ! 



THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH. 53 

John. Ah, who'd have thought it? 
Dot. ( Sitting on thejloor^ and shaking her head.) 
You never mean to say that it's Gruff & Tackleton, 
the toy-maker. (John 7tods ; Dot 7iods^ and gazes at 
John in astonishment.) 

Tilly, ( L. c. Trotting the baby.) Was it Gruff's & 
Tackleton's, the toy-makers, then, and Would it call 
at pastry cooks for w^edding cakes, and Did it's moth- 
ers know the boxes when its fathers brought them 
home. 

Dot. And that is really to come about ! Why, she 
and I were girls at school together, John. And he's 
as old ! as unlike her ! Why, how many years older 
than you, is Gruff & Tackleton, John.? 

yohn. How many more cups of tea sliull I drink 
to-night at one sitting, than Gruff & Tackleton ever 
took in four, I wonder? (Drazvs zip to table.) As 
to eating, I eat but little, but that little I enjoy. Dot. 

[Dot stands thoughtfully near the basket^ 
fushiitg the cake-box with her foot. 
John calls to her; raps on the table 
with his knife; then rises., and going 
to her., touches her on the shoulder. She 
starts^ lattghs^ and takes her place at 
table. 
Dot. So these are all the parcels, are they, John ? 
John, That's all. i^Lays down his knife and 
fork and draws a long breath.) Why — no — I — 
I declare — I've clean forgotten the old gentleman ! 
Dot. The old gentleman } 

John. In the cart. He was asleep among the 
straw, the last time I saw him. " I've very nearly re- 



54 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

membered him twice since I came in ; but he went 
out of my head again. (I^isjs and hui'rics to the 
door^ c, cafzdle in hand.) Halloa! Ya-hip, there! 
Rouse up ! That's my hearty ! 

Eitter old geiitleinan^ c. 

You're such an undeniable good sleeper, sir, that 
I have half a mind to ask you where the other six 
are, — only that would be a joke, and I know I 
should spoil it. (Aside.) Very near, though — very 
near ! (Stranger' bows to Dot, and takes a seat near 
the Jire^ r.) I found him sitting by the roadside, up- 
right as a milestone, and almost as deaf! 

Dot. (At table.) Sitting in the open air, John? 

jfohri. (l. c.) In the open air, just at dusk. " Car- 
riage paid," he said, and gave me eighteen pence. 
Then he got in, and there he is. 

Stra77ger, If you please, I was to be left till called 
for. Don't mind me. (Takes a book and spectacles 
fro7n his pocket and reads. Dot and John ex- 
change glances. Stranger looking from Dot to 
John.) Your daughter, my good friend? 

John. (At tabled) Wife. 

Stran. Niece ? 

John. ( Very loud.) Wife ! 

Stran. Indeed! Surely? Very young! (Reads 
again.) Baby, yours? {^oni^ 7zods.) Girl? 

jfohn. (Roars.) Bo-o-oy ! 

Stran. Also very young, eh ? 

Dot. (c. ^tiickly and very loud^ Two months and 
three da-ays. Vaccinated just six weeks ago-o ! Took 
very finc-ly ! Considered by the doctor a remarkably 



THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH. 55 

beautiful chi-ild ! Takes notice in a way quite won- 
der-ful ! May seem impossible to you, but feels his 
legs al-ready ! {Holds up the baby. Twajy dances 
around the7n.) 

jfo/m. Hark ! He is called for, sure enough. 
There's somebody at the door. Open it, Tilly. {Door 
opens., c.) 

Enter Caleb Plummer. 

Caleb, (r. c.) Good evening, John ! Good even- 
ing, mum ! Good evening, Tilly ! Good evening, 
Unbeknown! How's baby, mum? Boxer's pretty 
well, I hope.^ 

Dot. All thriving, Caleb. I'm sure you need only 
look at the dear child, for one, to know that. 

Caleb. And I am sure I need only look at you for 
another ; or at John for another ; or at Tilly, as far as 
that goes. Or certainly at Boxer. 

John. Busy just now, Caleb? 

Caleb. Why, jDretty well, John. Pretty much so. 
There's rather a run on Noah's Arks at present. I 
could have wished to improve upon the Family, but I 
don't see how it's to be done at the price. It would 
be a satisfaction to one's mind to make it clearer which 
was Shems and Hams, and which was wives. Flies 
ain't on that scale, neither, as compared with ele- 
phants, you know. Ah, well ! Have you got any- 
thing in the parcel line for me, John? 

John. {Takes from his pocket a very small Jloiv- 
er--pot ; removes the zvrappings.') There it is ! Not 
so much as a leaf damaged. Full of buds ! 

Caleb: {Taking Jlozver-pot.) Thank you, John ! 

yoh?i. Dear, Caleb, — very dear, at this season. 



56 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

Caleb. Never mind that ; it would be cheap to me, 
whatever it cost. Anything else, John.? 

yohn. (Risi?zg:) A small box. i^Takbzg it from 
Jiis pocket.^ Here you are ! 

Caleb. ( Taking it and spelling out the address.^ 
" For Caleb Plummer — with cash." With cash, 
John } I don't think it's for me I 

yohn. {^Looking over his shoulder.) With c«r^. 
^here do you make out cash } 

Caleb. O, to be sure ! It's all right. With care ! 
Yes, yes, that's mine. It might have been with cash, 
indeed, if my dear boy in the golden South Americas 
had lived, John. You loved him like a son — didn't 
you? You needn't say you did. / know, of course. 
Caleb Plummer — with care. Yes, yes ; it's all right. 
It's a box of dolls' eyes for my daughter's work. I 
wish it was her own sight in a box, John. 

John. I wish it was, or could be. 

Caleb. Thank'ee. You speak very hearty. To 
think that she should never see the dolls, and them 
a-staring at her, so bold, all day long ! That's where 
it cuts. What's the damage, John ? 

yohn. I'll damage you, if you inquire. Dot, very 
near.? Did I come very near? 

Caleb. Well, it's like you to say so ; it's your kind 
way. Let me see, I think that's all. 

yohn. I think not ; try again. 

Caleb. Something for our governor, eh? To be 
sure ! That's what I came for. But my head's so 
running on them arks and things ! He hasn't been 
here — has he ? 

yohn. Not he. He's too busy courting. 



THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH. 57 

Caleb. He's coming round, though, for he told me 
to keep on the near side of the road, going home, and 
it was ten to one he'd take me up. I'd better go. By- 
the-by, you couldn't have the goodness to let me pinch 
Boxer's tail, mum, for half a moment — could you.^ 

Dot. Why, Caleb, what a question ! 

Caleb. O, never mind, mtjm. He mightn't like it, 
perhaps. Tliere's a small order just come in for bark- 
ing dogs, and I should wish to go as close to natur' as 
I could for sixpence. That's all ; never mind, mum. 
\_Skoulders the large box and goes towards 
the door. 

Enter Tackleton, c. 

Tackleton. {To Caleb.') O, you're here, are you .? 
Wait a bit ! I'll take you home. John Peerybingle, 
m}' service to you. More of my service to your pretty 
wife. {Crosses to l., and stands with hat over his 
eyes and his hands in his fockets^ looking at Dot.) 
Handsomer every day ! Better, too, if possible ! 
{Aside.) And younger, that's the devil of it. 

[ Caleb sits dozun on the cake-box and goes 
to sleep., near the door., c. 
Dot. I should be astonished at your paying com- 
pliments, Mr. Tackleton, but for your condition. 
Tac. You know all about it, then? 
Dot. I have got myself to believe it, somehow. 
Tac. After a hard struggle, I suppose .? 
Dot. Very. 

[ Gives baby to Tilly, %vho sits with it 7iear 
cradle. Dot takes a seat near the jire., 
facing stranger. Leans her head on 
her hand and looks at Jire. 



58 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

Tac. (l.) In three days' time. Next Thursc^a^^ 
The last day of the first •month in the year. That's 
my wedding day. (^Rattles his money in his pocket.) 
That's my wedding day ! 

John. (^Crossi?2g- to 1^.) Why, It's our wedding 
day, too ! 

Tac. Ha, ha ! Odd ! You're just such another 
couple. Just! {^Nudges John %vith his elbow.) I 
say! A word with you. {^Leads him one side^ l.) 
You'll come to the wedding ! We're in the same boat, 
you know. 

John. How in the same boat.'' 

Tac. i^Niidging hi7n.) A little disparity, you 
know. Come and spend an evening with us, before- 
hand. 

John. Why.? 

Tac. Why ? That's a new way of receiving an 
invitation. Why, for pleasure, — sociability, you 
know, and all that. 

John. I thought you were never sociable. 

Tac. Tchah ! It's of no use to be anything but 
free with you, I see. W^hy then, the truth is, you have 
a — what tea-drinking people call a sort of a com- 
fortable appearance together, you and your wife. 
We know better, you know, but — 

yohn. No, we don't know better. What are you 
talking about.'* 

Tac, Well, we don't know better, then. We'll 
agree that we don't. As you like, what does it mat- 
ter .f* I was going to say, as you have that sort of ap- 
pearance, your company will produce a favorable 
effect on Mrs. Tackleton, that will be. And, though 



THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH. ^0 

I don't think your good lady is very friendly to me, in 
this matter, still she can't 'help herself from falling 
into my views, for there's a compactness and cosiness 
of appearance about her that always tells, even in an 
indifterent case. You'll say you'll come ? 

jfo/in. We have aiTanged to keep our w^edding day 
(as far as that goes) at home. We've made the prom- 
ise to ourselves these six months. We think, you see, 
that home — 

Tac. Bah ! What's home ? Four w^alls and a 
ceiling. ( Cricket chirps.^ Why don't you kill that 
cricket? /"would. I always do. I hate their noise. 
There are four walls and a ceiling at my house. Come 
to me. 

John. You kill your crickets, eh? 

Tac. (^Settiitg his heel on the groimd.) Scrunch 
'em, sir! You'll say you'll come? It's as much 
your interest as mine, you know, that the women 
should persuade each other that they're quiet and con- 
tented, and couldn't be better off. I know their way. 
Whatever one woman says, another woman is deter- 
mined to clinch, always. There's that spirit of emu- 
lation among 'em, sir, that if your wife says to my 
wife, " I'm the happiest woman in the world, and 
mine's the best husband in the world, and I dote on 
him," my wife will say the same to yours, or more, 
and half believe it. 

John. Do you mean to say she don't, then? 

Tac. Don't? Don't what? {Winking at him.') 

John. Don't believe it? ^Eying him hard.) 

Tac. {Lazighing.) Ah! you dog, you're joking ! 
I have the humor, sir, to marry a young wife, and a 



6o DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

pretty wife. I'm able to gratify that humor, and I do. 
It's my whim. But — now look there! {Points to 
Dot. John, fcrplexed^ looks at her^ then at Tackle- 
ton ; back at Dor, and then at Tackleton agai?2.) 
She honors and obeys, no doubt, you know, and 
that, as I am not a man of sentiment, is quite enough 
for me. But do you think there's anything more in it} 

jfohn. I think that I should chuck any man out of 
the window who said there wasn't. 

Tac. {Quickly.) Exactly so. To be sure! Doubt- 
less you would. Of course, — I'm certain of it. Good 
night! Pleasant dreams! (John looks troubled. 
Tackleton speaks co7npasszonately.) Good night, 
my dear friend, I'm off. We're exactly alike in reali- 
ty, I see. You won't give us to-morrow evening.? 
Well ! Next day, you go out visiting, I know. I'll 
meet you there, and bring my wife that is to be. It will 
do her good. You're agreeable.? Thank'ee ! (Dot 
gives a loud cry, and rising from her chair, gazes 
at stranger, who has risen and stands faxing her.) 
What's that? 

John. Dot ! Mary ! Darling ! WHiat's the mat- 
ter.? (^All cluster, r. c, about her. Caleb wakes^ 
starts up and seizes Tilly by the hair, and i?n- 
mediately apologizes. John takes Dot i7z his 
arms) Mary, are you ill.? What is it? Tell me, 
dear! 

[Dot beats her hands together, and falls 
into a fit of laughter. She then sinks 
on the floor, and, covering her face with 
her apron, sobs ; then laughs and cries 
alternately. 



THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH. 6 1 

Dot. O, John, how cold I am ! 

[//^ leads her to thejire^ whei'e she resumes 
her former place and attitude. The 
stra?iger does not move. 
I'm better, John. I'm quite well, now. I — John ! 
Only a fancy, John, dear ; a kind of shock, — a 
something coming suddenly before my eyes. I 
don't know what it was. It's quite gone — quite 
gone. 

Tac. (l.) {^Looking suspiciously about.) I'm 
glad it's gone. {Aside.) I wonder where it's gone, 
and what it was. Humph ! Caleb, come here ! 
Who's that with the gray hair? 

Caleb. ( Whispering.) I don't know, sir. Never 
see him before in all my life. A beautiful figure for a 
nut-cracker ! Quite a new model ! With a screws- 
jaw, opening down into his waistcoat, he'd be lovely. 

Tac. Not ugly enough. 
•• Caleb. ( Contemplatively.) Or for a match-box, 
either. What a model ! Unscrew his head to put the 
matches in ; turn him heels up'ards for the light; and 
what a match-box for a gentleman's mantel-shelf, just 
as he stands ! 

Tac. Not half ugly enough. Nothing in him at 
all. Come, bring that box. {Turning to Dot.) All 
right now, I hope ? 

Dot. O, quite gone, quite gone. {M^aviiigTxQY:.- 
LETON away.) Good night ! 

Tac. {Near door., c.) Good night ! Good night, 
John Peerybingle ! Take care how you carry that box, 
Caleb. Let it fall and I'll murder you. {Opens door.) 



63 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

Dark as pitch, and weather worse than ever, eh? 
Good night ! 

\_Exit Tackleton, c, followed by Caleb, 
with the cake-box on his head. 

yoh7z. {^ToViOT.^ looking towai'ds stranger.") He 
don't belong to them, you see ! I must give him a 
hint to go. 

Stra7iger. {Approaching him.') I beg 30ur par- 
don, friend, the more so as I fear your wife has not 
been welL But the attendant, whom my infirmity 
{touches his ear) renders ahnost indispensable, not 
having arrived, I fear there must be some mistake. 
The bad night which made the shelter of your com- 
fortable cart so acceptable, is still as bad as ever. 
Would you, in your kindness, suffer me to rent a bed 
here ? 

Dot. {Quickly.) Yes, yes, yes, certainly ! 

yohn. {Surprised.) O! — well, I don't object. 
But still, I'm not quite sure that — ^ 

Dot. {Risijzg.) Hush, dear John ! 

John. Why, he's stone deaf. 

Dot. ( Crossing to l.) I know he is, but — {to 
stranger.) Yes, sir, certainly ! Yes, certainly {to 
John). I'll make him up a bed directly, John. 
{Hurries off., l. John looks after in astonishment.) 

Tilly. { Trotting the baby.) Did its mothers 
make it up a bfeds then, and did its hair grow brown 
and curly when its caps was lifted off, and frighten it, 
a precious pets, a-sitting by the fires ! 

John. {Pacing the room., repeat i72g.) And fright- 
ened it a precious pets, a-sitting by the fires. What 
frightened Dot, I wonder? 



THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH. 63 

Dot. {E7itering^ L.) Your room is ready, sir. 
{Exit stranger^ i.., with candle. John sits near Jire. 
V>OT flls John's pipe.) I feel quite well again, John, 
quite well. 

[Dot brings a low stool., places it at his 
feet., sits down^ lights his pipe and gives 
it to him. Tableau. Cricket chirps. 
Curtain, 



64 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 



The Blind Girl. 

Scene: Room of Caleb Plummer, the toy-niaker ; 
at back a door and wmdow ; the room is in a very 
dilapidated condition^ and the furniture^ scaitty 
and poor. All kijids of toys^ iit different stages 
of co7npletion^ lie abotit the room^ and hang on the 
ivalls. On a clotJies-line^ l., upper corner^ is hung 
a coarse sackcloth coat^ on the back of which is 
to be see72^ in large letters '' G. & T. — Glass^ 
Caleb, seated at a bench ^ r., is at work on a toy 
house. Bertha, seated on a low stool ^ c, is mak- 
ing dolls' dresses. 

Bertha. So you were out in the rain last night, 
father, in your beautiful new coat? 

Caleb, (r.) In my beautiful, new great-coat. 

Ber. How glad I am you bought it, father ! 

Caleb. And of such a tailor, too. Qiiite a fashion- 
able tailor. It's too good for me. 

Ber. {Resting from her work, and laughing.) 
Too good, father ! What can be too good for you ? 

Caleb. {Watching her sharply.) I'm half ashamed 
to wear it, though, upon my word ! When I hear the 
boys and people say behind me, " Halloo ! Here's a 
swell ! " I don't know whicli way to look. And 
when the beggar wouldn't go away last night, — and 
when I said I was a very common man, — said " No, 
your honor ! Bless your honor, don't say that ! " I 
was quite ashamed. I really felt as if I hadn't a right 
to wear it. 



THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH. 6^ 

Bertha. ( Clasping her hands ^ I see you, father, 
as plainly as if I had the eyes I never want when you 
are with me. A blue coat — 

Caleb. Bright blue. 

Ber. Yes, yes! Bright blue! The color I can 
just remember in the blessed sky ! You told me il; 
was blue before. A bright blue coat — 

Caleb. Made loose to the figure. 

Ber. {^Laughing heartily.^ Yes ! loose to the 
figure! And in it, you, dear father, with }our merry 
eye, your smiling face, your free step, and your dark 
hair — looking so young and handsome ! 

Caleb, Hallo ! Hallo ! I shall be vain presently. 

Ber. /think you are already. I know you, father ! 
(^Pointing at hijn.) Ha, ha, ha ! I've found you out, 
you see ! 

Caleb. (^Stepping back and lookmg at his work.) 
There we are ! As near the real thing as sixpenn'orth 
of half-pence is to sixpence. What a pity that the 
whole front of the house opens at once ! If there was 
only a staircase in it, nov/, and regular doors to the 
rooms to go in at ! But that's the worst of my calling, 
I'm always deluding myself, and swindling myself. 
( Takes his seat and resumes work.) 

Ber. You are speaking quite softly. You are not 
tired, father.? 

Caleb. Tired! What should tire me, Bertha.? / 
was never tired. What does it mean ? ( Sings.) 

Enter Tackleton, c. 

Tac. What ! You're singing, are you .? Go it ! / 
I can't afibrd to sing. I'm glad you can. 

5 



G6 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

I hope you can afford to work, too. (Caleb 7'lscs and 
sta7zds by his bench^ facing up the stage.) Hardly 
time for both, I should think? 

Caleb. ( Whispering.) If 3'ou could only see 
him, Bertha, how he's winking at me ! Such a man 
to joke ! You'd think, if you didn't know him, he was 
in earnest — wouldn't you now } 

[Bertha smiles and nods. Tackleton 
remains at back., examining toys. 

Tac. ( Grumbling.) The bird that can sing, and 
won't sing, must be made to sing, they say. What 
about the owl that can't sing, and oughtn't to sing, 
and will sing ; is there anything that he should be 
made to do? 

Caleb. ( Whispers to Bertha.) The extent to 
which he's winking at this moment. O, my gracious ! 

Ber. Always merry and light-hearted with us ! 

Tac. O! You're there, are 3^ou ? (Aside.) Poor 
idiot! {Comes down to Bertha.) Well, and being 
there,* — how, are you ? 

Ber. Oh ! well ; quite well. And as happy as even 
you can wish me to be ; as happy as you would make 
the whole world, if you could ! 

Tac. (Aside.) Poor idiot! No gleam of reason. 
Not a gleam. (Bertha seizes his hand and kisses 
it.) What's the matter now? 

Ber, I stood it close beside my pillow when I went 
to sleep last night, and remembered it in my dreams. 
And when the day broke, and the glorious red sun, — 
the red sun, fother? (Tackleton ^t><?^ to l.) 

Caleb. Red in the mornings and the evenings, 
Bertha. 



THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH. 67 

Ber. (c.) When it rose, and the bright h'g'it I al- 
most fear to strike myself against in walking, came 
into the room, I turned the little tree towards it, and 
blessed Heaven for making things so precious, and 
blessed you for sending them to cheer me ! 

Tac, {Seated^ 1.. Aside.) Bedlam broke loose ! 
We shall arrive at the strait waistcoat and mufflers 
soon. We're getting on ! Bertha, come here. 

Ber. O, I can come straight to you ! You needn't 
guide me. {Rises and goes to Jiim.) 

Tac. Shall I tell you a secret, Bertha? 

Bet'. (^Eagerly.) If you will. 

Tac, This is the day on which little what's-her- 
name, the spoilt child, Peerybingle's wife, pays her 
regular visit to you, — makes her fantastic picnic here, 
— ain't it } 

Ber. Yes, this is the day. 

Tac, I thought so. I should like to join the party. 

Ber. Do you hear that, father? 

Caleb. Yes, yes, I hear it ; (aside) but I don't be- 
lieve it. It's one of my lies, I've no doubt. 

Tac. You see I — I want to bring the Peerybin- 
gles a little more into company with May Fieldmg. I 
am going to be married to May — 

Ber. (^Starting back.) Married! 

Tac. {Aside.) She's such a con-founded idiot 
that I was afraid she'd never comprehend me. Ah, 
Bertha ! Married ! Church, parson, clerk, beadle, 
glass-coach, bells, breakfast, bridecake, favors, mar- 
row-bones, cleavers, and all the rest of the tomfoolery. 
A wedding, you know! A wedding! Don't you 
know what a wedding is? 



68 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

Ber. ( Gently^ I know. I understand ! 

Tac. Do you? {Aside.) It's more than I ex- 
pected. Well ! On that account I want to join the 
party, and to bring May and her mother. I'll send in 
a little something or other, before the afternoon. .A 
cold leg of mutton, or some comfortable trifle of that 
sort. You'll expect me } 

Ber. Yes. i^Turns and goes up the stage ^ r.) 

Tac. {Aside.) I don't think you will, for you 
seem to have forgotten all about it already. Caleb ! 

Caleb. {Aside.) I may venture to say I'm here, 
I suppose. {Aloud.) Sir! 

Tac. Take care she don't forget what I've been 
saying to her. ( Goes tozvards door., c.) 

Caleb. She never forgets. It's one of the few 
things she ain't clever in. 

Tac. {Aside.) Every man thinks his own geese 
swans. Poor devil ! 

\_Exit Tackleton. Caleb resumes his 
work. Bertha returns to her seat by 
his side and takes her sezving again. 
A pause. 

Ber. {Sorrowfully.) Father, I'm lonely in the 
dark. I want my eyes, — my patient, willing eyes. 

Caleb. {Leaving his work a?id drawing his chair 
near her., c.) Here they are. Always ready. They 
are more yours than mine. Bertha, any hour in the 
four-and-twenty. What shall 3'our eyes do for you, 
dear ? 

Ber. Look round the room, father. 

Caleb. {Looking about.) All right ! No sooner 
said than done, Bertha. 



THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH. 69 

Ber. Tell me about it. 

Caleb. It's much the same as usual. Homely, but 
very snug. The gay colors on the walls ; the bright 
flowers on the plates ancf dishes ; the shining wood, 
where there are beams or panels ; the general cheer- 
fulness and neatness of the building, make it very 
pretty. 

Ber. ( Touching him.) You have your working- 
dress on, and are not so gallant as when you wore the 
handsome coat ! 

Caleb. Not quite so gallant. Pretty brisk, though. 

Be?'. {Draws iiearer^ and puts one arm around 
his neck.) Father, tell me something about May. She 
is very fair? 

Caleb. She is, indeed ! 

Ber. ( Thoughtfully.) Her hair is dark — darker 
than mine. Her voice is sweet and musical, I know. 
I have often loved to hear it. Her shape — 

Caleb. There's not a doll's in all the room to equal 
it. And her eyes ! — ( Checks himself.^ and hums 
a tune.) 

Ber. Our friend, father ; our benefactor. I am 
never tired, you know, of hearing about him. Now, 
was I ever.? 

Caleb. ( Uneasily.) Of course not, and with reason. 

Ber. Ah ! With how much reason ! Then tell 
me again about him, dear father. Many times again ! 
His face is benevolent, kind, and tender. Honest and 
true, I am sure it is. The manly heart that tries to 
cloak all favors with a show of roughness and unwil- 
lingness, beats in its every look and glance. 

Caleb. {Desperately.) And makes it noble. 



70 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

Ber. And makes it noble ! He is older than May, 
father ? 

Caleb. Ye-es. He's a little older than May. But 
that don't signify. 

Ber. O, father, yes ! To be his patient compan- 
ion in infirmity and age ; to be his gentle nurse in 
sickness, and his constant friend in suffering and sor- 
row ; to know no weariness in working for his sake ; 
to watch him, tend him, sit beside his bed and talk to 
him awake, and pray for him asleep ; what privileges 
these would be! What opportunities for proving all 
her truth and her devotion to him ! Would she do all 
this,, dear father ? 

Caleb. No doubt of it. 

Ber. I love her, father ; I can love her from my 
soul. {Lays her Jiead on his shoulder and weeps.) 

[ Curtain., — or conti^tue as follozvs : — 
Enter ^ c.d., Mr. and^lv.^. Peerybingle, car- 
rying baskets and parcels., which they de- 
posit at back ; they are followed by Tilly, 
with the baby ; Boxer brings up the rear; 
' exchange of salutations ; Tilly places 
baby in cot., r., up the stage; Dot, Ber- 
tha, andTvLiss: spread the table; gen- 
eral conversatio7z. Enter Tackleton, 
accompanied by ^v^s>. Fielding and^lKY^ 
and followed by a man with bundles ; 
greetings. Exit man; Mrs. Fielding 
a7Z(^ Tackleton^//, l. ; Caleb «?2^Joiin, 
R. ; dinner being reat/y, Tackleton leads 
Mrs. Fielding to the post of honor ; 
the rest seat themselves as below. 



THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH. ^I 



Bertha's Picnic. 

Scene, the same. c. A kiSle, laid for dinner. At 
head of table is seated Dot ; on her right, Mrs. 
Fielding ; on her left. May ; next to Mrs. F., 
Tackleton ; next to May, Bertha, by whom sits 
Caleb ; at foot, John Peervbingle. Up the stage^ 
R., a cot, in zvhich is the baby. Tilly seated by it. 

Dot. Ah, May ! Dear, dear, what changes ! To 
talk of those merry school-days makes one young 
again. 

Tackleton, Why, you ain't particularly old, at any 
time — are you ? 

Dot. Look at my sober, plodding husband there ! 
He adds twenty years to my age, at least. Don't you, 
John? 

John. Forty ! 

Dot. {Laughing.) How many you'll add to 
May's, I'm sure I don't know. But she can't be much 
less than a hundred years of age on her next birthday. 

Tac, {Savagely.) Ha, ha ! 

Dot. Dear, dear ! Only to remember how we used 
to talk, at school, about the husbands we would choose ! 
I don't know how young, and how handsome, and how 
gay, and how lively mine was not to be ! And as to 
May's ! Ah, dear ! I don't know whether to laugh or 
cry, when I think what silly girls we w^ere. Even the 
very persons themselves — real live young men — we 
fixed on sometimes. We little thoug-ht how thinofs 
would come about. I never fixed on John, I'm, sure. 
I never so much as thought of him. And if Ihad told 



72 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

you you were ever to be married to Mr. Tackleton, 
why, you'd have slapped me — wouldn't you, May? 

Tac, {^Laughing boisterously.) .You couldn't help 
yourselves, for all that. You couldn't resist us, you 
see. Here we are ! Here we are ! Where are your 
gay young bridegrooms now? 

Dot. Some of them are dead, and some of them 
forgotten. Some of them, if they could stand among 
us at this moment, would not believe we were the 
same creatures ; would not believe that what they 
saw and heard was real, and we could forget them so. 
No r They would not believe one word of it ! 

yokn. ( Gently.) Why, Dot, little woman ! 

Mrs. Fielding. Well, well ! Girls are girls, and 
by-gones, by-gones ; and so long as young people are 
young and thoughtless, they will probably conduct 
themselves like young and thoughtless persons. I 
thank Heaven I have always found in my daughter 
May, a dutiful and obedient child, for which I take no 
credit to myself, though I have every reason to believe 
it is entirely owing to me. That Mr. Tackleton is, in 
an eligible point of view, a son-in-law to be desired, 
no one in their senses can doubt. {^A pause.) The 
general result of my observation and experience is, 
that those marriages in which there is least of what is 
romantically called love, are always the happiest; and 
I anticipate the greatest amount of bliss from the ap- 
proaching nuptials of to-morrow. 

Johii. (Raising his glass.) I propose : To-mor- 
row ! The Wedding Day ! ( They drink. John rises 
and puts on his overcoat.) Good-by ! I shall be 
back before long. Good-by, all ! 

[Bertha, leaving the table., comes down 



THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH. 73 

and slts^ i.. Caleb I'ises and watches 
Jier anxiously from l. c. 

Caleb. {Abstractedly.) Good-by, John ! 

Johii. {^Bending over cot., r.) Good-by, young 
shaver ! {Kisses the child.) Good-by ! Time will 
come, I suppose, when you'll turn out into the cold, 
my little friend, and leave your old father to enjoy his 
l^ipe and his rheumatics in the chimney corner; eh? 
Where's Dot? 

Dot. {Starti7ig.) I'm here, John. 

John. {Clapping- his hands.) Come, come! 
Where's the pipe? 

Dot. I quite forgot the pipe, John ! 

John. Forgot the pipe ! Tou forget the pipe ! 

Dot. I'll — I'll fill it directly. It's soon don^. 

\_Takes the pipe from his coat pocket., and 
cliunsily flls and lights it. Tackleton 
watches her sharply. 

fohn. Why, what a clumsy Dot you are to-day ! I 
could have done it better myself, I verily believe ! 

[.iB'.Y// John, c, follozved by Tackleton. 

Caleb. {Approaching ^kktu A., l., and speaking 
in a low tone.) Bertha! what has happened? How 
changed you are, my darling, in a few hours. Tou 
silent and dull all day ! What is it? Tell me ! 

Ber. {Bursting into tears.) O, father, father! 
O, my hard, hard fate ! 

Caleb. But think how cheerful and how happy 
you have been. Bertha ! How good, and how much 
loved, by many people. 

Ber. That strikes me to the heart, dear father! 
Always so mindful of me ! Always so kind to me ! 



74 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

Caleb. (^Hesitatingly .^ To be — to be blind, Ber- 
tha, my poor dear, is a great affliction ; but — 

Ber. I have never felt it ! I have never felt it, in 
its fulness, never ! I have sometimes wished that I 
could see you, or could see him — only once, dear 
father, only for one little minute — that I might know 
what it is I treasure up, and {laying her hands on 
her breast) hold here ; that I might be sure I have it 
right. But I have never had these feelings long. They 
have passed aw^ay, and left me tranquil and contented. 

Caleb. And they will again. 

Ber. But, father ! O, my good, gentle father, bear 
with me, if I am wicked ! This is not the sorrow 
that weighs me down ! Bring her to me. I cannot 
hold it closed and shut within myself. Bring her to 
me, father. i^He hesitates.) May. Bring May ! 

[May, hearing her., comes down and touches 
her on the arm. Caleb withdraws to r. 

May. Bertha ! 

Ber. ( Turning and taking both her hands.) 
May ! Look into my face, dear heart ! Sweet heart ! 
Read it with your beautiful eyes, and tell me if the 
truth is written on it. 

May. Dear Bertha, yes ! 

Ber. {Putting her arms around May, and draw- 
ing her nearer.) There is not, in my soul, a wish or 
thought that is not for your good, bright May ! There 
is not, in my soul, a grateful recollection stronger than 
the deep remembrance which is stored there, of the 
many, many times when, in the full pride of sight and 
beauty^ you haye had consideration for Blind Bertha, 
even when we two v/ere children, or when Bertha was 



THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH. 75 

as much a child as ever blindness can be. Every bless- 
ing on your head ! Light upon your happy course ! 
{Holds her closer.) Not the less, my dear May, — 
not the less, my bird, because, to-day, the knowledge 
that you are to be his wife has wrung my heart almost 
to breaking ! Father — May — Mary ! O, forgive me 
that it is so, for the sake of all he has done to relieve 
the weariness of my dark life ; and for the sake of the 
belief you have in me, when I call Heaven to witness 
that I could not wish him married to a wife more wor- 
thy of his goodness ! 

\_S/ie sinks slowly oit her k7tees^ and hides 
her face in May's dress. 

Caleb, (r.) Great Power ! Have I deceived her 
from her cradle, but to break her heart at last ! 

Dot. {^Coming dowfz quickly.) Come, come, 
dear Bertha ! come away with me ! Give her your 
arm, May. So ! How composed she is, you see, al- 
ready ; and how good it is of her to mind us ! {^Kisses 
her.) Come away, dear Bertha. Come ! And here's 
her good father will come with her — won't you, Ca- 
leb } To — be — sure ! 

\_Exeu7it Caleb, Bertha, aitd Dot, l. 
Mrs. Fielding re?jmins at table. Re- 
enter Dot. 

Dot. {Drazuing chair to Jire^^.) So bring me 
the precious baby, Tilly ; and while I have it in my 
lap, here's Mrs. Fielding, Tilly, will tell me all about 
the management of babies, and put me right in twenty 
points where I'm as wrong as can be. Won't you, 
Mrs. Fielding? \_Curtain. 



y6 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 



The Crisis. 

Scene : the same. Time^ evenhig. Caleb at work 
at his bench^ R. Bertha seated near him. Dot 
and Mrs. Fielding co7iversing together at jire. 
Tackleton and May, l. At back^ l., Tilly %vith 
baby. Barking of a dog is heard^ followed by a 
heavy step. Door,, c, opens. 

Bertha, (^Starting and listening.) Whose step 
is that } 

yohn, {^Entering.') Whose step? Why, mine ! 

Ber, {Rising.) The other step. The man's tread 
behind you ! 

yohn, (Laughing.) She's not to be deceived. 
{Turning and going to open door.) Come along, 
sir. You'll be welcome ! Never fear ! 

Enter Stranger. 

He's not so much a stranger, that you haven't seen him 
once, Caleb. You'll give him house-room till we go.? 

Caleb, O, surely, John, and take it as an honor. 

yohn. He's the best company on earth, to talk se- 
crets in. I have reasonable good lungs, but he tries 
'em, I can tell you. ( Very loud to stranger^ Sit 
down, sir. {He sits,, up the stage., r.) All friends 
here, and glad to see you. {To Bertha.) A chair 
in the chimney corner, and leave to sit quite silent and 
look pleasantly about him, is all he cares for. He's 
easily pleased. (Dot crosses to c, and stands by 
John.) 



THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH. 77 

Bertha. {Softly.) Father, who Is it? Describe 
him to me. 

[Caleb describes ^tiw^gf.^ to her in a low 
tone. When he Jias Jinished Bertha 
sicr/is and tiirris azuav. 

o 

yohn. {Embracing vjife.^Q.) A cUimsy Dot she 
was this afternoon ! And yet I hke her, somehow. 
See yonder, Dot. {Points to Stranger. Dot t7ir?zs 
her head towards Stranger, a7id then looks down. 
He's — ha, ha, ha ! — he's full of admiration for you ! 
Talked of nothing else, the whole way here. Why, 
he's a brave old boy ! I like him for it ! 

Dot. {Glancing uneasily about the room.) I wish 
he'd had a better subject, John. 

John. A better subject ! There's no such thing. 
Come, off with the great-coat ! (Dot assists him.) 
Off with the thick shawl, off with the heavy wrap- 
pers, and a cosy half hour by the fire ! ( To Mrs. 
Fielding.) My humble service. Mistress. A game at 
cribbage, you and I ? That's hearty. The cards and 
board, Dot. {She brings them.) And a glass of beer 
here, if there's any left, small wnfe. 

[Mrs. Fielding aiid John sit down and 
flay., up the stage^ r. Dot and the 
Stranger go out quietly. Tackleton 
follozvsthem. Mrs. Fielding ai/^rt? John 
play. After a time., Tackleton returns 
and touches John on the arm. 
' Tac. I'm sorry to disturb you, but a word with 
you directly. 

yohn. I'm going to deal. It's a crisis. 
Tac. It is. Come here, man ! 



78 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

yoh n, ( Rising and speaking h u ri'iedly.) Wh at*s 
the matter? (Mrs. Fielding remains seated^ occu' 
pied with her cards.) 

Tac. Hush ! John Peerybingle, I'm sorry for this. 
I am, indeed. I have been afraid of it. I have sus- 
pected it from the first. 

yoh?i. (^Anxionsly.) What is it? 
Tac. Hush ! I'll show you, if you'll come with 
me. {They go up the stage.) A moment! Can 
you bear to look through tliat window, do you think? 
yohn. Why not? {Moves tovjards %ui?zdow.) 
Tac. { Checking hi?n.) A moment more. Don't 
commit any violence. It's of jio use. It's dangerous, 
too. .You're a strong-made man; and you might do 
murder before you know it. 

[John looks at him and recoils., then strides 
to the window., left of door., c. Tack- 
i^^TO'S follows hi?n. As he reaches it., 
the darkjzess without is illumined., and 
two figures^ Dot and the Stranger, are 
seen. The Stranger has removed his 
wig., and revealed a young ma?z. He 
has his arm about Dot, a7zd is talking 
to her. As John looks., Dot turns to 
Stranger, and adjusts his ^vig., laugh- 
ing. John raises his clinched hand., opens 
it and covers Tackleton's eyes with it., 
then falls into a chair. The vision dis- 
appears. John recovers himself and 
slowly puts on his over-coat and shawl^ 
and makes other preparations for de- 
parture. 



THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH. 79 

Dot. {Entering^) Now, John, dear ! (jE'jv^V John.) 



Good-night, May. Good-night, Bertha ! 

\_Kisses both; prepares to go. Bertha 
seated^ r. c, weeping. 

Tilly. ( Walking tip and down past Tackleton 
with baby in her arms.) Did the knowledge that 
it was to be its wives, then, wring its liearts ahnost to 
breaking ; and did its fathers deceive it from its cra- 
dles, but to break its hearts at last ! (Tackleton 
scowls at her.) Did it, then ! 

Dot. Now, Tilly, give me the baby ! Good-night, 
Mr. Tackleton. Where's John, for goodness' sake? 

Tac. (At back, l.) , He's going to walk beside the 
horse's head. 

Dot. What ! John walk ? To-night ? 

Tac. Yes ! 

\_Exeimt, all but Caleb and Bertha. 

Caleb. (Sitting near thejire with his head in his 
hands., and watching Bertha. Sadly.) Have I 
deceived her from her cradle, but to break her heart 
at last. [ Curtain. 



8o DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 



" Reparation." 

Scene : John Peerybingee's Kitchen, as in Scene 
I. ; Time^ early iJiorning; John seated^ r., before 
the embers of last nighfs fire^ his head buried in 
his hands, 

yohn. {In a low tone.^ He lies there {looking 
towards l.) under my roof. One blow would beat in 
the door. " You might do murder before you know 
it," said Tackleton. How could it be murder, if 
you gave the villain time to gVapple with you hand to 
hand ! He is a younger man than you ; yes, yes, a 
younger man ; some lover who won the heart that^y^^^ 
have never touched. Some lover of her early choice, 
of whom she has thought and dreamed, for whom she 
has pined and pined, when you fancied her so happy 
by your side. O, agony to think of it ! (Dot glides 
in^ L. u. E. Her hair hangs down over her shoulders. 
She crosses., noiselessly., to John, and falling at his 
feet., looks up into his face. He raises his head and 
looks at her ; takes her head iiz his hands and kisses 
her forehead; then biiries his face again in his 
hands. Exit Dor, sobbing.) O ! how desolate I 
have become ! The great bond of my life is rent 
asunder ! Rather would I have seen her lying dead 
there, before me, with her child upon her breast. O, 
what shall I do ! {fiercely.) Kill him ! Kill him! 
In his bed ! 

\_Z.ooks about him for a zueapoit ; rises., and 
crossing the room takes down his gun] 



THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH. 8l 

goes to door of chamber^ L., occupied by 

Stranger ; reverses the gun to beat in 

the door ; as he holds it in the air. Cricket 

chirps loudly^ and the Jire flashes zip. 

He recoils, lowers the gun^ puts it aside^ 

returns to his place by the fire, sits down, 

and bursts into tears. Music. The 

Cricket., i7i faiiy shape., coines out and 

stands, l. c. * 

Fairy. {Slowly and softly:) I love it for the 

many times I have heard it, and the many thoughts its 

harmless music has given me. 

Joh?!. (r.) She said so ! True ! 
Fairy. This has been a happy home, John, and I 
love the Cricket for its sake ! 

■ yohn. It has been, Heaven knows ! She made it 
happy, alvs^ays, — until now. {Sobs.) 

Fairy. So sweet-tempered ; so domestic, joyful, 
busy, and light-hearted ! 

yohn. Otherwise I never could have loved her as 
I did. 

Fairy.- As you do I 
John. {Hesitatingly.') As I did. 
Fairy. Upon your own hearth — 
John. The hearth she has blighted. 
Fairy. The hearth she has — hoM^ often ! — blessed 
and brightened ; the hearth which, but for her, were 
only a few stones and bricks and rusty bars, but which 



* The appearance of the Fairy, though adding much to 
the effectiveness of the Scene, may be dispensed with, and 
the whole, as far as "Enter .Tackleton," made a sohloquy. 
6 



82 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

has been, through her, the altar of your home ; on 

^vhich you have nightly sacrificed some petty jDassion, 

selfishness, or care, and offered up the homage of a 

.tranquil mind, a trusting nature, and an overflowing 

heart. Upon your own hearth ; in its quiet sanctuary, 

surrounded by its gentle influences and associations, 

hear her ! Hear me ! Hear everything that speaks 

the language of your hearth and home ! 

yohn. And pleads for her ! 

Fairy. All things that speak the language of your 
hearth and home, must plead for her ! For they speak 
the truth. 

\^A knock at door., c. Fairy va7tis/ies^ l. u. e. 
F?zter^ c. d., Tackleton, dressed for 
his "joedding. He comes doivn to c. 
Tac. John Peerybingle ! My good fellow, how do 
you find yourself this morning? 

yoh7i. {Shaking his head.) I have had but a 
poor night. Master Tackleton, for I have been a good 
deal disturbed in my mind. But it's over now ! Can 
you spare me half an hour or so, for some private 
talk.? 

Tac. I came on purpose. 

Enter., l. u. e., Tilly. She goes to door., l., and 
knocks; looks in at the keyhole; knocks again., 
very loud. 

John. (r.) You're not married before noon, I 
think ? 

Tac. (g.) No. Plenty of time. Plenty of time. 

[Tilly knocks again and shakes the door. 

Tilly. {Looking around.) If you please, I can't 



THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH. 83 

make nobody hear. I hope nobody ain't gone, and 
been and died, if you please ! {^Kicks the door.^ 

Tac. Shall I go.-* It's curious. (John nods as- 
sent, Tackleton g'oes to the door,, knocks, kicks,, 
and at last opens it ; looks in,, goes in and comes out 
hiirriedly. Goes to John, and speaks in his car. 
Exit Tilly, l. u. e.) John Peerybingle, I hope 
there has been nothing — nothing rash in the night.? 
(John turns quickly to him.) Because he's gone! 
And the window's open. I don't see any marks — to 
be sure, it's almost on a level with the garden; but 
I was afraid there might have been some — some 
scuffle, eh.'* 

John, Make yourself easy. He went into that 
room last night, without harm in word or deed from 
me, and no one has entered it since. He is away 
of his own free will. I'd go out gladly at that door, 
and beg my bread from house to house, for life, if I 
could so change the past that he had never come. But 
he has come and gone, and I have done with him. 
(Dot colters softly,, l. u. e., and stands at back.) 

Tac. {Taking a chair, c) O! — Well, I think 
he has got oft' pretty easy. 

John. {Covering his face with his hand,, and 
speaking slowly.) You showed me, last night, my 
wife ; my wife that I love ; secretly — 

Tac. And tenderly — 

John. Conniving at that man's disguise, and giv- 
ing him opportunities of meeting her alone. I think 
there's no sight I wouldn't have rather seen than that. 
I think there's no man in the world I wouldn't have 
rather had to show it me. 



84 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

Tac. I confess to having had my suspicions always. 
And that has made me objectionable here, I know. 

John. But as you did show it me, and as you saw 
her, my wife, my wife that I love, — as you saw her 
at this disadvantage, it is right and Just that you should 
also see with my eyes, and look into my breast, and 
know what my mind is upon the subject. For it's set- 
tled. And nothing can shake it now. 

Tac. To be sure, it is necessary to vindicate — 

jfohn, {Interrupt ing" him.) I am a plain, rough 
man, with very little to recommend me. I am not a 
clever man, as you very well know. I am not a young 
man. I loved my little Dot, because I had seen her 
grow up, from a child, in her father's house ; because I 
knew how precious she was ; because she has been my 
life, for years and years. There's many a man I can't 
compare with, who never could have loved my little Dot 
like me, I think. [Patise.) I often thought that though 
I wasn't good enough for her," I should make her a kind 
husband, and perhaps know her value better than anoth- 
er ; and in this way T reconciled it to myself, and came 
to think it might be possible that we should be married. 
And, in the end, it came about, and we ivere married ! 

Tac. Hah! 

John. I had studied myself. I knew how much I 
loved her, and how happy I should be. But I had not 
— I feel it now — sufficiently considered her. 

Tac. To be sure. Giddiness, frivolity, fickleness, 
love of admiration ! not considered ! All left out of 
sight ! Hah ! 

John. {Ste7'nly.) You had best not interrupt 
me, till you understand me ; and you're wide of doing 



THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH. 85 

SO. If, yesterday, I'd have struck that man down at a 
blow, who dared to breathe a word against her, to-day 
I'd set my foot upon his face, if he was my brother ! 
(Tackleton looks astonished. John continues more 
cahnly.) Did I consider that I took her — at her age 
and with her beauty — from her young companions, 
and the many scenes of which she was the ornament ; 
in which she was the brightest star that ever shone ; to 
shut her up from day to day in my dull house to keep 
my tedious company? Did I consider that it was no 
merit in me that I loved her, when everybody must, 
who knew her? Never! I took advantage of her 
hopeful nature, and her cheerful disposition, and I 
married her. I wish I never had ! For her sake, not 
for mine ! Heaven bless her for the cheerful constancy 
with which she has tried to keep the knowledge of this 
from me ! And Heaven help me that, in my slow 
mind, I have not found it out before ! Poor child ! 
Poor Dot ! That I could ever hope she would be fond 
of me ! That I could ever believe she was ! 

7ac. She made such a show of it that, to tell you 
the truth, it was the origin of my misgivings. 

yohn. She has tried — I only now begin to know 
\\Q\N hard — to be my dutiful and zealous wife. How 
good she has been ; how much she has done ; how 
brave and strong a heart she has, let the happiness I 
have known under t!iis roof bear witness ! It will 
be some help ahd comfort to mc, when I am here 
alone. 

Tac. Here alone? O! Then you do mean to 
take some notice of this? 

John. I mean to" do her the greatest kindness, and 



86 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

make her the best reparation, in my power. I can re- 
lease her from the daily pain of an unequal marriage, 
and the struggle to conceal it. She shall be as free as 
I can render her. 

Tac. Make /ler reparation ! There must be some- 
thing wrong here. You didn't say that, of course. 

yohn. {^Seizing Tackleton by the collar and 
shaking hifu.) Listen to me ! And talce care that you 
hear me right. Listen to me. Do I speak plainly.? 
(John and Tackleton, centre^ both standing,) 

Tac. Very plainly, indeed. 

John. As if I meant it? 

Tac. Very much as if you meant it. 

John. I sat upon that hearth last night, all night ; 
on the spot where she has often sat beside me, with 
her sweet face looking into mine. I called up her 
whole life, day by day. I had her dear self, in its every 
passage, in review before me. And upon my soul she 
is innocent, if there is One to judge the innocent and 
the guilty ! Passion and distrust have left me, and 
nothing but my grief remains. In an unhappy mo- 
ment, soine old lover, better suited to her tastes and 
years than I, returned. In an unhappy moment, taken 
by surprise, she made herself a party to his treacher}-, 
by concealing it. Last night she saw him, in the in- 
terview we witnessed. It was wrong. But otherwise 
than this, she is innocent if there is truth on earth! 

Tac. If that is your opinion — 

John. So, let her go ! Go, with my blessing for the 
many happy hours she lias given me, and my forgive- 
ness for any pang she has caused me. Let her go, 
and have the peace of mind I wish her ! She'll never 



THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH. S'/ 

hate me. She'll learn to like me better when I'm 
not a drag upon her. This is the clay on which I took 
her from her home. To-day she shall return to it, and 
I will trouble her no more. Her father and mother 
will be here to-day, — we had made a little plan for 
keeping it together, — and they shall take her home. I 
can trust her there, or anywhere. Sl^ .leaves me with- 
out blame, and she will live so, I am sure. If I should 
die, — I may, perhaps, while she is still young ; I have 
lost some courage in a few hours, — she'll find that I 
remembered her, and loved her to the last. This is 
the end of what you showed me. Now it's over ! 

Dot i^Clasfing her hands^ without corning for- 
ward.) O, no, John, not over! Do not say it's over 
yet ! Not quite yet. I have heard your noble words. 
I could not steal away, pretending to be ignorant of 
what has affected me with such deep gratitude. Do 
not say it's over, till the clock has struck again ! 

John. No hand can make the clock which will 
strike again for me the hours that are gone. But let 
it be so, if you will, my dear. It will strike soon. I'd 
try to please you in a harder case than that. 

Tac. Well ! I must be oft'', for when the clock 
strikes again, it'll be necessary for me to be upon my 
way to church. Good morning, John Peerybingle. 
(Dot sits^ weepings at back^ r. Tilly brings i7i 
baby^ l. u. e., and walks 2t,p a?id down with it.) I'm 
sorry to be deprived of the pleasure of your company. 
Sorry for the loss, and the occasion of it too ! 

John. (^Accompanying him to door, c.) I have 
spoken plainly.^* 

T'ac. O, quite ! 



88 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

yoJin. i\nd you'll remember what I have said? 
Tac, {Stepping out. ^ Why, if you compel me to 
make the observation, I must say that it was so very un- 
expected, that I am far from being likely to forget it. 

JoJin. The better for us both. Good-by ! I give 
you joy ! 

Tac. I wish I could give it to you. As I can't, 
thank'ee. Between ourselves, I don't much think I 
shall have the less joy in my married life, because May 
hasn't been too officious about me, and too demonstra- 
tive. Good-by ! Take care of yours'jlf. 

\_Exit Tackleton. John stands at open 

door, c, looking after him. Dot, r., 

contiizues to sob hysterically. Tilly 

walks up and dozvn the stage., L., " htish- 

ing^' the baby. 

Tilly. {^Stopping at l.) Ow if you please don't! 

It's enough to dead and bury the baby so it is if you 

please. 

Dot. (Drying her eyes.) Will you bring him, 
sometimes, to see his father, Tilly, when I can't live 
here, and have gone to my old home? 

Tilly. {^Throwing back her head and bursting 
into a howl.) Ovv if you please don't I Ow if you 
please don't ! Ow, what has everybody gone and been 
and done with everybody, making everybody else so 
wretched.'* Ovv-w-w-w ! 

[Dot, r. seated; Tilly, l., with baby; 
John, c. d., looking out of the door. 
Curtain. * 

* The Scene may close here, or may continue with the en- 
trance of Caleb and Bertha. In the hitter case, John will 
go off, c. D., immediately after Tackleton. 



THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH. 89 



"Sight Restored."* 

Scene, the same ; Dot seated^ r., sobbing hysteri- 
cally. Tilly, l., with baby in her arms., looking 
at Dot. 

T^illy. 0\v if you please don't ! It's enough to 
dead and bury the baby so it is if you please ! 

Dot. (^Drying her eyes.) Will you bring him 
sometimes, to see his father, Tilly, when I can't live 
here, and have gone to my old home? 

Tilly. (^Bursting into a howl.) Ow if you please 
don't ! Ow if you please don't ! Ovv, what has every- 
body been and gone and done with everybody, making 
everybody else so wretched? Ow-w-w-w ! 

Enter Caleb, leading Bertha. Tilly breaks off 
her " howl^' and stares at them. 

Bertha, (l.) Mary, not at the marriage? 

Caleb, (r. Near Dot ; whispering.) I told her 
you wouldn't be there, mum. I heard as much last 
night. But, bless you, {Takes her hands iit his.) I 
don't care for what they say. / don't believe them. 
There ain't much of me, but that little should be torn 
to pieces, sooner than i'd trust a word against you ! 

* If this Scene is to follow the last without an intermission, 
it should commence at " Enter Caleb," and John should go 
off (in the last Scene) immediately after Tackleton; oth- 
erwise, the last Scene should end at " Exit Tackleton," ana 
this one begin with Tilly, as above. 



90 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

• 

(^Embraces her.) Bertha couldn't stay at home this 
morning. She was afraid, I know, to hear the bells 
ring, and couldn't trust herself to be so near them on 
their wedding day. So we started in good time, and 
came here. {A pause.) I have been thinking of 
what I have done. I have been blaming myself, till I 
hardly know what to do, or where to turn, for the dis- 
tress of mind I have caused her. And I've come to 
the conclusion that I'd better, if you'll stay w^ith me, 
mum, the while, tell her the truth. You'll stay with 
me the while? I — {^T7'emblingly,) I don't know 
what effect it may have upon her. I don't know what 
she'll think of me. I don't know that she'll ever care 
for her poor father afterwards. But it's best for her 
that she should be undeceived, and I must bear the 
consequences, as I deserve ! 

Ber. ( Crossing to r.) Mary, where is your hand } 
Ah ! Here it is ; here it is ! {Kisses it and draws 
it through her ar?n.) I heard them speaking softly 
among themselves last night, of some blame against 
you. They were wrong. (Caleb crosses to L.) 

Caleb. They were wrong. 

Ber. I knew it. I told them so. I scorned to hear 
a word ! Blame her with justice ! No I I am not so 
blind as that. I know you all better than you think. 
But none so well as her. Not even you, father. There 
is nothing half so real and so true about me, as she is. 
If I could be restored to sight this instant, and not a 
word were spoken, I could choose her from a crowd ! 
My sister ! 

Caleb. Come here, Bertha, my dear ! I have some- 
thing on my mind I want to tell you, while we three 



THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH. 



91 



are alone. Hear me kindly ! I have a confession to 
make to you, my darling. 

Ber. {Going to him.) A confession, father? 

Caleb. ( L. c.) I have wandered from the truth and 
lost myself, my child. I have w^andered from the truth, 
intending to be kind to you ; and have been cruel. 

Ber. Cruel ! 

Dot. (r.) He accuses himself too strongly, Ber- 
tha. You'll say so, presently. You'll be the first to 
tell him so. 

Ber. He cruel to me ? 

Caleb. Not meaning it, my child. But I have been, 
though I never suspected it till yesterday. My dear 
blind daughter, hear me and forgive me. The world 
you live in, heart of mine, doesn't exist as I have 
represented it. The eyes you have trusted in have 
been false to you. (Bertha draws away froiu hiju.) 
Your road in life was rough, my poor one, and I meant 
to smooth it for you. I have -altered objects, changed 
the characters of people, invented many things that 
never have been, to make you happier. I have had 
concealments from you ; put deceptions on you, God 
forgive me ! and surrounded you with fancies. 

Ber. {Hurriedly^ and drazviiig farther from 
him.) But living people are not fancies ! You can't 
change them. 

Caleb. I have done so. Bertha. There is one per- 
son that you know, my dove — 

Ber. {Reproachfully.) O, father ! Why do 3'ou 
say /know.? What and whom do I know ! I, who 
have no leader ! I, so miserably blind ! ( Covers her 
face with her hands.) 



92 



DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 



Caleb, The marriage that takes place to-day, is with 
a stern, sordid,, grinding man. A hard master to you 
and me, my dear, for maiiy years. Ugly in his looks, 
and in his nature. Cold and callous, always. Unlike 
what I have painted him to you in everything, my 
child. In everything. 

Ber. O, why — why did you ever do this! Why 
did you ever fill my heart so full, and then come in 
like Death, and tear away the objects of my love ! O 
Heaven, how blind I am ! How helpless and alone ! 
(^Sinks 071 the Jioo7'^ c, and weeps. Caleb hangs 
his head in silence ; Cricket chii'ps softly ; Bertha 
raises her head.) Mary, tell me what my home is, — 
what it truly is. 

Dot. It is a poor place, Bertha ; very poor and 
bare, indeed. The house will scarcely keep out 
wind and rain another winter. (Bertha rises and 
goes to Dot.) It is as roughly shielded from the 
weather. Bertha, as your poor father in his sackcloth 
coat. (Caleb sits., l., with his arin on the back of 
the chair., and his head 07z his arm.) 

Ber. \Leading Dot up the stage.) Those 
presents that I took such care of, — that came almost 
at my wish, and were so dearly welcome to me, — 
where did they come from? Did you send them? 
(Dot ajid Bertha stand at back., c.) 

Dot. No. 

Ber. Who then? {V>oi: is silent. Bertha /^/^^^ 
Jier face on Dot's shoulder.) Dear JNiary, a mo- 
ment — one moment. Move this way. Speak softly 
to me. You are true, I know. You'd not deceive me 
now — would you ? 



THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH. 93 

Dot. {Embracino- /iej\) No, Bertha, Indeed ! 

jBer. No, I'm sure you would not. You have too 
much pity for me. Mary, look across the room to 
where we were just now, — to where my father is, — 
my father, so compassionate and loving to me — and 
tell me what you see. 

Dot. I see an old man sitting in a chair, and 
leaning sorrowfully on the back, with his face rest- 
ing on his hand ; as if his child should comfort him. 
Bertha. 

Ber. Yes, yes. She will. Go on. 

Dot. He is an old man, worn with care and work. 
He is a spare, dejected, thoughtful, gray-haired man. 
I see him now, despondent and bowed down, and 
striving against nothing. But, Bertha, I have seen 
him many times before, and striving hard in many 
ways for one great, sacred object. And I honor his 
gray head, and bless him. 

Ber. {^Breaking azvay, and throwing herself on 
her knees before Caleb, l.) It is my sight restored. 
It is my sight ! I have been blind, and now my eyes 
are open. I never knew him. To think I might have 
died, and never truly seen the father who has been so 
loving to me ! (Caleb much moved.) There is not 
a gallant figure on this earth that I would love so dear- 
ly, and would cherish so devotedly as this ! The 
grayer, and more worn, the dearer, father ! Never let 
them say I am blind again. There's not a furrow in 
his face, there's not a hair upon his head, that shall 
be forgotten in my prayers and thanks to Heaven ! 
( Throws her ar??is aboid him.) 

Caleb. i^Embracing her.) My Bertha ! 



94 



DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 



Be7'. ( Ca7'esshig hi???^ and iveephig:) And in 
my blindness, I believed him to be so ditierent ! And 
having him beside me, day by day, so mindful of me 
always, never dreamed of this ! 

Caleb. The fresh, smart father in the blue coat, 
Bertha — he's gone ! 

Bei\ Nothing is gone. Dearest father, no. Every- 
thing is here — in you. The father that I loved so 
well ; the father that I never loved enough, and never 
knew ; the benefactor whom I first began to reverence 
and love, because he had such sympathy for me ; all 
are here in you. Nothing is dead to me. The soul 
of all that was most dear to me is here — here, with 
the worn face, and the gray head. And I am not blind, 
father, any longer ! 

\_Tableau. Caleb and Bertha, l. c, Dot, 
R. c. ; Curtain, 



THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH. 95 



*'My Boy from the Golden South Americas." 

Scene, the same ; Caleb, seated by Bertha, l. c. 
Dot, seated^ r. c. 

Bertha. {Hesitating.) Father — Mary! 

Caleb. Yes, my dear. Here she is. 

Ber. There is no change in her ? You never told 
me anything of her that was not true } 

Caleb. I should have done it, my dear, I am afraid, 
if I could have made her better than she was. But I 
must have changed her for the worse, if I had changed 
her at all. Nothing could improve her, Bertha. (Ber- 
tha embraces Dot.) 

Dot. More changes than you think for, may hap- 
pen, though, my dear. Changes for the better, I mean. 
Changes for great joy to some of us. You mustn't let 
them startle you too much if any such should ever hap- 
pen, and aHect you ! Are those wheels upon the road ? 
You've a quick ear, Bertha. Are they wheels.'* 
{Rises., and cliiigs tre?7iblingly to back of her chair., 
looking up the stage.) 

Ber. Yes, coming very fast. 

Dot. {Panting with excitement.) I — I — I know 
you have a quick ear, because I have noticed it often, 
and because you were so quick to find out that strange 
step last night. They are wheels, indeed ! Coming 
nearer 1 Nearer ! {Excitedly.) Very close ! and 
now you hear them stopping at the garden gate ! And 
now you hear a step outside tlie door — the same step, 
Bertha — is it not ? — and now — ( Gives a loud cry^ 



96 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

and r winning to Caleb, l. c, covei's his eyes with 
her hand. A young man (Edward) rushes in., c. d., 
and., throwing his hat in the air., comes down to- 
wards them.) Is it over? 

Edward, (r. c.) Yes ! 

Dot. Happily over? 

Edw. Yes. 

Dot. Do you recollect the voice, dear Caleb ? Did 
you ever hear the like of it before .'' 

Caleb. (Trembling.) If my boy in the Golden 
South Americas, was alive — 

Dot. {^Removing her ha7ids., a7td clapping them.) 
He is alive ! Look at him ! See where he stands be- 
fore you, healthy and strong ! Your own dear son ! 
Your own dear, living, loving brother, Bertha ! {They 
embrace one another.) 

Clock strikes twelve. Enter JowN, c. d. //e starts 
back. 

Caleb. Look, John! Look here! My own boy, 
from the Golden South Americas ! My own son I 
Him that you fitted out, and sent away yourself. Him 
that you were always such a friend to. 

yohn. (^Adva7tci7zg towards hi772., with exte7ided 
ha7ids., c, the7t recoili7ig.) Edward! Was it you? 

Dot. (l.) Now tell him all ! Tell him all, Ed- 
ward ; and don't spare me, for nothing shall make me 
spare myself in his eyes, ever again. 

Edw. (l. c.) I was the man. 

yoh7i. (r. c.) And could you steal, disguised, into 
the house of your old friend ? There was a frank boy 
once — how many years is it, Caleb, since we heard 



THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH. 97 

that he was dead, and had it proved, we thought — 
who never would have done that. 

Edw. There was a generous friend of mine once ; 
more a father to me than a friend, who never would 
have judged me, or any other man, unheard. You 
were he. So I am certain you will hear me now. 

John, (r.) Well, that's but fair. I will. 

Edw. You must know that when I left here, a boy, 
I was in love, and my love was returned. She was a 
very young girl, who, perhaps (you may tell me), did 
not know her own mind. But I knew mine, and I 
had a passion for her. 

jfo/in. You had ! You ! 

Edw. Indeed I had. And she returned it. I have 
ever since believed she did, and now I am sure she did. 

yohn. Heaven help me ! This is worse than all. 

Edw. Constant to her, and returning, full af hope, 
after many hardships and perils, to redeem my part of 
our old contract, I heard, twenty miles away, that she 
was false to me ; that she had forgotten me, and had 
bestowed herself upon another, and a richer man. I 
had no mind to reproach her, but I wished to see her, 
and to prove beyond dispute that this was true. That 
I might have the truth, the real truth, observing freely 
for myself, I dressed myself unlike myself, — you know 
how, — and waited on the road — you know where. 
You had no suspicion of me ; neither had — had she 
(^Points to Dot), until I whispered in her ear at that 
fireside, and she so nearly betrayed me. 

Dot. (l.) {Sobbing.') But when she knew that 
Edward was alive, and had come back, and when she 
knew his purpose, she advised him, by all means, to 

7 



98 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

keep his secret close ; for his old friend, John Peery- 
bingle, was much too open in his nature, and too 
clumsy in all artifice — being a clumsy man in general, 
— to keejD it for him. And when she, — that's me, 
John, — told him all, and how his sweetheart had be- 
lieved him to be dead ; and how she had been at last 
over-persuaded by her mother into a marriage which 
the silly, dear old thing called advantageous ; and 
when she — that's me, again, John, — told him they 
were not yet married, and that it would be nothing but 
a sacrifice if it went on, for there was no love on her 
side ; and when he went nearly mad with joy to hear it, 
then she — that's me again — said she could go between 
them, and would sound his sweetheart and be sure that 
what she — me again, John, — said and thought was 
right. And it was right, John ! And they were 
brought together, John. And they were married, 
John, an hour ago ! And 

Enter^ c. d.. May Fielding, with her mother ; they 
stand at back^ c. 

here's the bride ! And Gruff and Tackleton may die a 
bachelor ! And I'm a happy little woman. May, God 
bless you. {Runs to May, c, up the stage ^ and em- 
braces her I John is rushiiig towards her^ but she 
stops hi?}t a?id retreats to l.) No, John, no! Hear 
all ! It was v/rong to have a secret from you. I'm 
very sorry. I didn't think it any harm. But when I 
knew that you had seen me walking in the gallery with 
Edward, and when I knew what you thought, I felt 
how giddy and how wrong it was. But, oh, dear John, 
how could you, could you think so ! Not yet, John, 



THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH. 99 

not yet ! When I was sad about this intended mar- 
riage, it was because I remembered Ma}' and Edward 
such young lovers ; and knew that her heart was far 
away from Tackleton. You beheve that now, don't 
you, John? No; keep there, please, John ! When I 
laugh at you, John, as I sometimes do, and call you 
clumsy, and a dear old goose, and names of that sort, 
it's because I love you, John, so well, and take such 
pleasure in your ways, and wouldn't see you altered 
in the least respect to have you made a king to-morrow. 
Caleb. ■ Hooroar ! My opinion ! 
Dot. Not yet, John ; another minute or two, if you 
please, John. What I want most to tell you, I have 
kept to the last. My dear, good, generous John, when 
we were talking the other night about the Cricket, I 
had it on my lips to say that, at first, I did not love you 
quite as dearly as I do now ; but, dear John, every 
day and every hour, I loved you more and more. And 
if I could have loved you better than I do, the noble 
words I heard you say this morning would have made 
me. (John advaiices slowly across the stage.) But 
I can't. All the affection that I had (it was a great 
deal, John), I gave you long, long ago, and I have no 
more left to give. Now, my dear husband, take me to 
your heart again ! That's my home, John ; and never, 
never think of sending me to any other ! 

\_Throzus herself into his arms., c. All j'oift 

in congratulations. Cricket chirps. 

Noise zvithozct* 

* John and Dot, c. ; Edward and May, l. c. ; Mrs. 
Fielding and Bertha, r. c. ; Caleb up the stage, l. u. e. ; 
Tilly up the stage, r. 



lOO DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

Caleb. {^Looking out of window^ left of c. D.) 
Gruff and Tackleton coming back. 

Enter Tackleton, c. d. ; stops., c. 

Tac. Why, what's this, John Pecrybingle ! There's 
some mistake. I appointed Mrs. Tackleton to meet 
me at the church, and I'll swear I passed her on the 
road, on her way here. O I here she is ! I beg your 
pardon, sir ; I haven't the pleasure of knowing you ; 
but if you can do me the favor to spare this young 
lady, she has rather a particular engagement this 
morning. 

Edw. But I can't spare her. I couldn't think 
of it. 

Tac. What do you mean, you vagabond? 

Edw. I mean that I am as deaf to harsh discourse 
this morning, as I was to all discourse last night. 
(Tackleton looks at him and starts. Edward 
holds out May's left hand.) I am sorry, sir, that the 
young lady can't accompany you to church ; but as 
she has been there once, this morning, perhaps you'll 
excuse her. 

[Tackleton looks at her^ and takes from 
his pocket a piece of silver paper., con- 
taining a 7'ing^ which he gives to Tilly. 

Tac. Miss Slowboy, will you have the kindness to 
throw that in the fire? Thank'ee. 

Edw. It was a previous engagement, quite an old 
engagement, that prevented my wife from keeping her 
appointment with you, I assure you. 

Tac. O, certainly ! O, to be sure ! It's all right, 
it's quite correct. Mrs. Edward Plummer, I infer? 



THE crick:et on the hearth. ioi 

Edw. That's the name. 

Tac, Ah! {Looking closely at him.) I shouldn't 
have known 3'ou, sir. I give you joy, sir. 

Edw: Thank'ee. 

Tac, Mrs. Peerybingle, I'm sorry. You haven't 
done me a very great kindness, but, upon my Hfe, I am 
sorry. You understand me ; that's enough. It's quite 
correct, ladies and gentlemen all, and perfectly satis- 
factory. Good morning ! \_Exit^ c. d. 

[The Scene may end here, or may be continued by the ad- 
dition of the following : ] 

[ The pai'ty make preparations for a grand 

dinner together.^ setting the table in ceit- 

tre of stage. During the preparations 

a tap at door^ c. d., is heard. John 

opejis door ; enter., man., zvith box on his 

head; he places box on table. 

Man. Mr. Tackleton's compliments, and as he 

hasn't got no use for the cake himself, p'r'aps you'll 

eat it. ^Exit. 

Mrs. Fielding. I wouldn't touch it. It must be 

poisoned. I remember having heard of a cake that 

turned a whole seminary of young ladies blue. 

May. O, no, mother! No fear of that. {She cuts 
the cake., and offers it to the compa7zy.) 

A7zother tap. Enter same man., with a large bundle. 

Man. Mr. Tackleton's compliments, and he's sent 
a few toys for the Babby. They ain't ugly. {Exit. 
1 ap again.) 



I02 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

Enter Tackleton, c. d. 

Tac. {Taking- o^ his haf.) Mrs. Peerybingle ! 
Tm sorry. I'm more sorry than I was this morn- 
ing. I have had time to think of it. John Peerybin- 
gle ! I am sour by disposition ; but I can't help being 
sweetened, more or less, by coming face to face with 
such a man as you. Caleb ! this unconscious little 
nurse gave me a broken hint last night, of which I have 
found the thread. I blush to think how easily I might 
have bound you and your daughter to me, and what a 
miserable idiot I was, when I took her for one. Friends, 
one and all, my, house is very lonely to-night. I have 
not so much as a Cricket on my hearth. I have scared 
them al>away. Be gracious to me ; let me join this 
happy party ! 

\_Appiause. Congratulations. Tableau. Crick- 
et cJiirps merrily. Curtain. 

[This Scene may be still further extended by introducing 
the dancing and merry-making described in the original.] 



THE BATTLE OF LIFE 




f/) 


(J) 






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Pi 






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THE BATTLE OF LIFE. 



[^Por a descriptio7i of characters and costumes^ see Judex, at 
the end of this volume.'] 



"All a Farce." 

Scene, Dr. Jeddler's Orchard. Across the hack^ a 
fence^ ivith a gate ^ c. ; r., Porch ^ Dr. Jeddler's 
house, L., Trees .^ &c.; Music^ a harp and Jiddle. 
Grace a^id Marion danci}ig to the music, Efiter^ 
r., Dr. Jeddler. Grace and Marion stand at 
gate,, c. 

Dr. yeddler. ( Going towards c.) Music and 
dancing to-day ! ( Stopping and talking to himself.^ 
I thought they dreaded to-day ; but it's a world of 
contradictions. Why, Grace ! why, Marion ! Is the 
world more mad than usual this morning? 

JSIarion. ( Going to him and looJcing in his face^ 
Make some allowance for it, fother, if it be, for it's 
somebody's birthday. 

Dr. y. Somebody's birthday, Puss? Don't you 
know it's always somebody's birthday? Did you nev- 
er hear how many new j^erformers enter on this — 
ha, ha, ha ! — it's impossible to speak gravely of it — 

105 



I06 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

on this preposterous and ridiculous business called 
Life, every minute. 

Ma?'ion, No, father ! 

Dr. y. No, not you, of course, — you're a woman, 
— almost. By-the-by, I suppose \t' s your hirthd^y'i 

Mar. No ! Do you really, father ? 

Dr. y. (^Kissing- her.) There! Take my love with 
it. And many happy returns of the — the idea ! — of 
the day. (^Aslde.) The notion of wishing happy 
returns in such a farce as this, is good — Ha, ha, ha ! 
Well, but how did you get the music? Poultry steal- 
ers, of course ! Where did the minstrels come from ? 

Grace. {^Arranging the floivers in Marion's 
hair.') Alfred sent the music. 

Dr. y. O, Alfred sent the music — did he ? 

Grace. Yes. He met it coming out of the town 
as he was entering, early. The men are travelling on 
foot, and rested there last night ; and as it was Mar- 
ion's birthday, and he thought it would please her, he 
sent them on, with a pencilled note to me, saying that 
if I thought so too, they had come to serenade her. 

Dr. y. Ay, ay, he always takes your opinion. 

Grace. And my opinion being favorable, and Mar- 
ion being in high spirits, and beginning to dance, I 
joined her. And so we danced to Alfred's music till 
we were out of breath. And we thought the music 
all the gayer for being sent by Alfred — didn't we, 
Marion ? 

Mar. O, I don't know, Grace. How you tease 
me about Alfred ! 

Grace. Tease you by mentioning your lover? 

Mar, I'm sure I don't much care to have him men- 



THE BATTLE OF LIFE. IO7 

tloned. {^Stripping so77ie Jlozvers and scattering the 
petals.^ I'm almost tired of hearing of him. And as 
to his being my lover — 

Grace. Hush ! Don't speak lightly of a true heart, 
which is all your own, Marion, even in jest. There's 
not a truer heart than Alfred's in the world ! 

Mar. No, perhaps not. But I don't know that 
there's great merit in that. I — I don't want him to 
be so very true. I never asked him. If he expects 
that I — But, dear Grace, why need we talk of him 
at all, just now ? 

Dr. y. Britain ! Britain ! Halloa ! 

Britai7i. i^Comhtg from the house^ r.) Now, 
then ! 

Dr. y. Where's the breakfast table ? 

Brit. In the house. 

Dr. y. Are you going to spread it out here, as you 
were told last night? Don't you know that there are 
gentlemen coming? That this is a very particular 
occasion ? 

Brit, (r.) ( Very loud.) I couldn't do anything. 
Doctor Jeddler, till the women had done getting in 
the apples — could I? 

Dr. y. {^Looking at his watch.) Well, have 
they done now? {Exit Britain, and returns with 
table.) Come ! iclappiiig his hands) come ! Where's 
Clemency ? 

Newco7ne. {Co7]iing from trees ^ l.) Here am I, 
Mister. It's all done, now. {Speaking off ,i^^ Clear 
away, gals! Everything shall be ready for you in 
half a minute, Mister ! (Britain brings out table- 
furniture. Newcome lays the table at l., 7iear trees.) 
Here are them two lawyers a-coming, Mister. 



I08 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

Dr. y. ( Going- towards gate., c. Messrs. 
Snitchey and Craggs enter at gate.) A-ha ! Good 
mornino^ ! Good morning ! Grace, my dear ! Mar- 
ion ! Here are Messrs. Snitchey and Craggs. Where's 
Alfred.? 

Grace, (r.) He'll be back directly, father, no 
doubt. He had so much to do this morning, in his 
preparations for departure, that he was up and out by 
daybreak. Good morning, gentlemen ! 

Mr. Snitchey. {^Saluting.) Ladies, for Self and 
Craggs, (Craggs bows.^ good morning ! Miss, ( To 
Marion, r.,) I kiss your hand. {Kisses it.) And 
I wish you a hundred happy returns of this auspicious 
day. 

Dr. y, ( Thoughtfully.) Ha, ha, ha ! The great 
farce, in a hundred acts ! 

Mr. S. You wouldn't, I am sure, cut the great farce 
short for this actress, at all events, Dr. Jeddler. 

Dr. y. No, God forbid ! May she live to laugh 
at it, as long as she caii laugh, and then say, with the 
French wit, " The farce is ended ; draw the curtain ! " 

Mr. S. {Looking i7zto his blue bag.) The French 
wit was wrong, Dr. Jeddler, and your philosophy is 
altogether wrong — depend upon it, as I've often told 
you. Nothing serious in life ! What do you call law ? 

Dr. y. A joke. 

Air. S. {Looking up.) Did you ever go to law } 

Dr. y. Never ! 

Mr. S. If you ever do, perhaps you'll alter that 
opinion. 

\_Puis his bag on the Jloor^ against the leg 
of the table. 



THE BATTLE OF LIFE. 109 

Craggs. It's made a great,deal too easy 

Dr. J. Law is? 

Craggs. Yes, everything is. Everything appears 
to me to be made too easy, nov^^-a-days. It's the vice 
of these times. If the world is a joke (I am not pre- 
pared to say it isn't), it ought to be made a very diffi- 
cult joke to crack. ' It ought to be as hard a struggle, 
sir, as possible. That's the intention. But, it's being 
made far too easy. We are oiling the gates of life. 
They ought to be rusty. We shall have them begin- 
ning to turn, soon, with a smooth sound. Whereas 
they ought to grate upon their hinges, sir. 

Enter.^ c, Alfred, followed by a porter^ with buit- 
dles. Dr. JeddLer, Snitchey, and Craggs ad- 
vance to meet him. 

Dr. y. Happy returns, Alf ! 

j\fr. S. {^Bowing low.) A hundred happy returns 
of this auspicious day, Mr. Heathfield ! 

Craggs. {In a low tone.) Returns ! 

Alfred. Why, what a battery! and one — two — 
three — all foreboders of no good, in the great sea be- 
fore me. I am glad you are not the first I have met 
this morning; I should have taken it for a bad omen. 
But Grace was the first — sw^eet, pleasant Grace — so 
I defy you all ! 

New. (l.) If you please. Mister, /was the first 
you know. She was walking out here, before sun- 
rise, you remember. I was in the house. 

Alf. That's true ! Clemency was the first. So I 
defy you with Clemency. 

Mr. S. Ha, ha, ha ! — for Self and Craggs. What 
a defiance ! 



no DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

Alf. {^Shaking hands with all.) Not so bad a 
one as it appears, may be. {^Looks around.) Where 
are the — {Sees Grace and Marion at r.) Oh! 
( Crosses to thein aitd salutes them^ 

Dr. y. Come, come, friends ! To breakfast ! 

\_77iey sit at table., l. c, Grace at head; 
next Alfred and Marion ; opposite 
them Snitchey and Craggs ; at fodt., 
Dr. Jeddler ; at back., l., at a small 
table., Britain carves beef and ham, 
Newcome waits on table. 
Brit. {Approachiiig Mr. S. with knife and fork 
in his hands.) Meat? 
Mr. S. Certainly. 

Brit. (7<3 Craggs.) Do jk^z^ want any ? 
Craggs. Lean and well done. 

[Britain serves both., and stationing him- 
self behind., eyes thetii severely. 
Dr, y. Now, Alfred, for a word or two of busi- 
ness while we are yet at breakfast. 

Mr. S. and C. While we are yet at break- 
fast. 

Alf. If you please, sir. 

Dr. y. If anything could be serious, in such a — 
Alf. Farce as this, sir. 

Dr. y. In such a farce as this, it might be this 
recurrence, on the eve of separation, of a double 
birthda}^, which is connected with many associations 
pleasant to us four, and with the recollection of a 
long and amicable intercourse. That's not to the 
purpose. 

Alf. Ah ! yes, yes. Dr. Jeddler. It is to the pur- 



THE BATTLE OF Ll^E. Ill 

pose. Much to the purpose, as my heart bears witness 
this morning ; and as yours does too, I know, if you 
would let it speak. I leave your house to-day ; I cease 
to be your ward to-day ; we part with tender relations 
stretching far behind us, that never can be exactly re- 
newed, and with others dawning yet before us [Jie 
looks down «/ Marion), fraught with such considera- 
tions as I must not trust myself to speak of now. Come, 
•come ! there's a serious grain in this large foolisli dust- 
heap, Doctor. Let us allow to-day, that there is one. 
(Mr. Craggs chokes,) 

Brit. ( Grimly.) I thought he was gone ! 

Dr. J. To-day ! Hear him ! Ha, ha, ha ! Of 
all days in the foolish year. Why, on this day, the 
great battle was fought on this ground. On this ground 
where we now sit, where I saw my two girls dance this 
morning, where the fruit has just been gathered for our 
eating from these trees, the roots of which are struck 
in Men, not earth, — so many lives were lost, that 
within my recollection, generations afterwards, a 
church-yard full of bones, and dust of bones, and chips 
of cloven skulls, has been dug up from underneath our 
feet here. Yet not a hundred people in that battle 
knew for what they fought, or why ; not a hundred of 
the inconsiderate rejoicers in the victory, why they re- 
joiced. Not half a hundred people were the better 
for the gain or loss. Not half a dozen men agree to 
this hour on the cause or merits, and nobody, in short,, 
ever knew anything distinct about it, but the mourners 
of the slain. Serious, too ! (^Laughing.) Such a 
sj'steiii ! 

Alf. But all this seems to me to be very serious. 



112 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

Dj'. y. Serious ! If you allowed such things to be 
serious, you must go mad, or die, or climb up to the 
top of a mountain, and turn hermit. 

Alf. Besides — so long ago. 

Dr, y. Long ago ! Do you know what the world 
has been doing, ever since ! Do you know what else 
it has been doing .^ /don't! 

Air, S. {^Stlrriiig his tea.) It has gone to law a 
little. 

Craggs. Although the way out has been always 
made too easy. 

Mr. S, And you'll excuse my saying, Doctor, hav- 
ing been already put a thousand times in possession 
of my opinion, in the course of our discussions, that, 
in its having gone to law, and in its legal system al- 
together, I do observe a serious side — now, really, a 
something tangible, and with a purpose and intention 
in it — 

[NEWCOMEyaZ/i- against the table. 

Dr. y. Heyday ! what's the matter there? 

New. It's this evil-inclined blue bag, always trip- 
ping up somebody ! 

Mr. S. With a purpose and intention in it, I was 
saying, that commands respect. Life a farce, Doctor 
Jeddler I With law in it ? {Doctor laughs.) Granted, 
if you please, that war is foolish. There we agree. 
For example: Here's a smiling country {pointi?2g 
it out with his fork)., once overrun by soldiers — 
trespassers every man of 'em, — and laid v/aste by 
fire and sword. He, he, he ! The idea of any man 
exposing himself, voluntarily, to fire and sword ! Stu- 
pid, wasteful, positively ridiculous ; you laugh at your 



THE BATTLE OF LIFE. 



1^3 



fellow-creatures, you know, when you think of it ! 
But take this smihng country as it stands. Think of 
the laws appertaining to real property ; to the bequest 
and devise of real property; to the mortgage and re- 
demption of real property ; to leasehold, freehold, and 
copyhold estate ; think of the complicated laws re- 
lating to title and proof of title, with all the contradic- 
tory precedents and numerous acts of Parliament con- 
nected with them ; think of the infinite number of 
ingenious and interminable chancery suits, to which 
this pleasant prospect may give rise ; and acknowl- 
edge, Dr. Jeddler, that there is a green spot in the 
scheme about us ! I believe {looking at his part- 
ner)^ that I speak for Self and Craggs? (Craggs 
nods.) A little more beef, if you please, Britain. I 
don't stand up for life in general ; it's full of folly ; full 
of something worse. Professions of trust, and con- 
fidence, and unselfishness, and all that! Bah, bah, 
bah ! We see what they're worth. But you mustn't 
laugh at life ; you've got a game to play ; a very seri- 
ous game, indeed ! Everybody's playing against you, 
you know, and you're playing against them. O ! it's 
a very interesting thing. There are deep moves upon 
the board. You must only laugh. Dr. Jeddler, when 
you win — and then not much. He, he, he! And 
then not much. ( Winks at Doctor.) 

Dr. y. Well, Alfred ! what do you say now.^ 
Alf. I say, sir, that the greatest favor you could 
do me, and yourself too, I am inclined to think, would 
be to try sometimes to forget this battle-field, and oth- 
ers like it, in that broader battle-field of Life, on which 
the sun looks every day. - 
8 



114 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

Mr, S. Really, I'm afraid that wouldn't soften his 
opinions, Mr. Alfred. The combatants are very eager 
and very bitter in that same battle of Life. There's a 
great deal of cutting and slashing, and firing into peo- 
ple's heads from behind. There is terrible treading 
down, and trampling on. It is rather a bad busi- 
ness. 

Alf. I believe, Mr. Snitchey, there are quiet vic- 
tories and struggles, great sacrifices of self, and noble 
acts of hei'oism, in it — even in many of its apparent 
lightnesses and contradictions — not the less difficult 
to achieve, because they have no earthy chronicle or 
audience — done every day in nooks and corners, and 
in little households, and in men's and women's hearts 
— any one of which might reconcile the sternest man 
to such a world, and fill him with belief and hope in it, 
though two fourths of its people were at war, and anoth- 
er fourth at law ; and that's a bold word. (Grace 
ajzd Marion liste?i zjzte?ztly.) 

Dr. y. Well, well ! I'm too old to be converted, 
even by my friend Snitchey, here, or my good spinster 
sister, Martha Jeddler ; who had what she calls her 
domestic trials, ages ago, and has led a sympathizing 
life with all sorts of people ever since ; and who is so 
much of your opinion (only she's less reasonable and 
more obstinate, being a woman) that we can't agree, 
and seldom meet. I was born upon this battle-field. 
I began, as a boy, to have my thoughts directed to 
the real history of a battle-field. Sixty years have gone 
over my head, and I have never seen the Christian 
world, including Heaven knows how many loving 
mothers and good enough girls, like mine here, any- 



THE BATTLE OF LIFE. II5 

thing but mad for a battle-field. The same contradic- 
tions prevail in everything. One must either laugh or 
cry at such stupendous inconsistencies ; and I prefer 
to laugh. (Britain chuckles.) 

Nevj. (^Nudging him with her elbow.) What are 
you laughhig at.^ 

Brit. Not you ! 

Nezu. Who, then ? 

Brit. Humanity ! That's the joke ! 

New. {Aside.) What between master and them 
lawyers, he's getting more and more addle-headed 
every day. {^Nudging him again.) Do you know 
where you arc? Do you want to get warning.? 

Brit. {^Looking immovably before him.) I don't 
know anything. I don't care for anything. I don't 
make out anything. I don't believe anything. And 
I don't want anything. 

Dr. y. But this is not our business, Alfred. Ceas- 
ing to be my ward (as you have said) to-day, and leav- 
ing^ us full to the brim of such learning as the Grammar 
School down here was able to give you, and your 
studies in London could add to that, and such practi- 
cal knowledge as a dull old country Doctor, like my- 
self, could graft upon both ; you are away, now, into 
the world. The first term of probation appointed by 
your poor father being over, away you go now, 3'our 
own master, to fulfil his second desire. And long before 
your three years' tour among the foreign schools of med- 
icine is finished, you'll have forgotten us. Lord, you'll 
forget us easily in six months ! 

Alf. {Laughing.) If I do — But you know bet- 
ter ; why should I speak to you ! 



Il6 DIAI.OGUES FROM DICKENS. 

. Dr. y. I don't know anything of the sort. What 
do you say, Marion? (Marion flays with her cztp^ 
"ivithoitt replying,^ I haven't been, I hope,* a very 
unjust steward in the execution of my trust ; but I am 
to be, at any rate, formally discharged, and released, 
and what not, this morning ; and here are our good 
friends, Snitchey and Craggs, with a bagful of papers, 
and accounts, and documents, for the transfer of the 
balance of the trust-fund to you (I wish it was a 
more difficult one to dispose of, Alfred, but you 
must get to be a great man, and make it so), and 
other drolleries of that sort, which are to be signed, 
sealed, and delivered. 

Air. S. {^Pitshlng back his cup and takhtg out 
his papers.) And duly witnessed as by law required ; 
and Self and Craggs having been co-trustees with you, 
Doctor, in so far as the funds was concerned, we shall 
want your two servants to attest the signatures — can 
you read, Mrs. Newcome? 

New. {^Behind Grace.) I ain't married. Mister. 

Mr. S. O, I beg your pardon. (Aside.) I should 
think not. (Looking at Newcome.) You can read? 

JVew. A litde. 

Mr, S. The marriage service, night and morn- 
ing, eh? 

JVew. No. Too hard. I only reads a thimble. 

Mr. S. Read a thimble ! What are you talking 
about, young woman ? 

A^ew. (Nodding.) And a nutmeg-grater. 

Mr. S. (Starting at her.) Why, this is a luna- 
tic ! a subject for the Lord High Chancellor ! 

Craggs. If possessed of any property ! 



THE BATTLE OF LIFE. II7 

[Newcome plunges into her pockei^ and 

drazving out^ one after another^ a hand- 

kercJiief^ a candle cnd^ an apple ^ an 

orange^ needle-case^ <&c.^ all of which she 

gives to Britain to hold^ fishes out her 

thimble, 

Grace. {Lazighijtg.) Clemency's thimble and 

nutmeg-grater have each an engraved motto. They 

form her pocket library, for she is not much given to 

books. 

Mr. S. O, that's it, is it. Miss Grace? Yes, yes ! 
Ha, ha, ha ! {Aside.) I thought our friend was an 
idiot. She looks uncommonly like it. ( To Newcome.) 
And what does the thimble say, Mrs. Newcome? 
New. I ain't married. Mister. 

Mr. S. Well, Newcome. Will that do? What 
does the thimble say, Newcome? 

[Newcome holds tip the thimble on her fore 
finger. 
Air. S. That's the thimble, is it, young woman? 
And what does the thimble say? 

New. {Reading slowly round it.) It says, 
" For-get and for-give." (Snitchey and Craggs 
laugh heartily.) 
. Mr. S. So new ! 
Craggs. So easy ! 

Mr. S. Such a knowledge of human nature in it ! 
Craggs. So applicable to the afilairs of life ! 
Mr. S. ( Tc? Newcome.) And the nutmeg-grater? 
A^ew. The grater says, " Do as you-— wold — be 
■ — done by." 

Afr. S. Do, or you'll be done brown, you mean. 



lib DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

New. {S/iakhig' her head.) I don't understand ! 
I ain't no lawyer. 

Air. S. I am afraid that if she was, Doctor, she'd 
find it to be the golden rule of half her clients. They 
are serious enough in that, — whimsical as your world 
is, — and lay the blame on us afterwards. We, in our 
profession, are little else than mirrors, after all, Mr. 
Alfred ; but we are generally consulted by angry and 
quarrelsome people, who are not in their best looks, 
and it's rather hard to quarrel with us if we reflect un- 
pleasant aspects. I think that I speak for Self and 
Craggs? 

Craggs. Decidedly. 

Mr, S. (^Retur7ihtg to his papers.) And so, if 
Mr. Britain will oblige us with a mouthful of ink, 
we'll sign, seal, and deliver as soon as possible, or the 
coach will be coming past before we know where we 
are. 

[Britain does not move; Newcome gets the 

ink; nudges Britain as she passes him. 

He rouses hijjiself. Papers are brought 

out., signed by Britain and Newcome, 

and put into the blue bag again. 

Dr. y. Britain ! Run to the gate and watch for 

the coach. (Britain goes to gate.) Time flies, 

Alfred. 

Alf. Yes, sir, yes. Dear Grace, a moment ! Mar- 
ion — so young and beautiful, so winning, and so 
much admired, dear to my heart as nothing else in 
life is — remember ! I leave Marion to you ! (Mar- 
ion stands apart.) 

Grace. She has always been a sacred charge to 



THE BATTLE OF LIFE. II9 

me, Alfred. She is doubly so, now. I will be faith- 
ful to my trust, believe me. 

Alf. I do believe it, Grace. I know it well. Who 
could look upon your face, and hear your voice, and 
not know it ! Ah, Grace ! If I had your well-gov- 
erned heart and tranquil mind, how bravely I would 
leave this place to-day ! 

Grace. {^Smiling.) Would you ? 

Alf. And yet, Grace — Sister, seems the natural 
word. 

Grace, {^itickly.) Use it ! I am glad to hear 
it. Call me nothing else. 

AJ/. And yet, sister, then, Marion and I had better 
have your true and steadfast qualities serving us here, 
and making us both happier and better. I wouldn't 
carry them away, to sustain myself, if I could ! 

Brit. Coach upon the hill-top ! 

Dr. y. Time flies, Alfred. (Alfred /<?^^5 Marion 
to her sister.) 

Alf. I have been telling Grace, dear Marion, that 
you are her charge ; my precious trust at parting. And 
when I come back and reclaim you, dearest, and the 
bright prospect of our married life lies stretched before 
us, it shall be one of our chief pleasures to consult 
how we can make Grace hajDpy ; how we can anticir 
pate her wishes ; how we can show our gratitude and 
love to her ; how we can return her something of the 
debt she will have heaped- upon us. And when the 
time comes, — as it must one day — I wonder it has 
never come yet, but Grace knows best, for Grace is 
always right — when she will want a friend to open 
her whole heart to, and to be to her something of what 



I20 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

she has been to us, — then, Marion, how faithful we 
will prove, and what delight to us to know that she, 
our dear good sister, loves and is loved again, as we 
would have her ! And when all that is past, and we 
are old, and living (as we must !) together, — close to- 
gether — talking often of old times — these shall be our 
favorite times among them — this day most of all ; and, 
telling each other what we thought and felt, and hoped 
and feared, at parting ; and how we couldn't bear to 
say good-by — 

Brit. Coach coming through the wood ! 

Alf. Yes ! I am ready — and how we met again, 
so happily, in spite of all ; we'll make this day the 
happiest in all the year, and keep it as a treble birth- 
day. Shall we, dear? 

Grace, {Eagerly.) Yes! Yes! Alfred, don't 
linger. There's no time. Say good-by to Marion. 
And Heaven be with you ! (Alfred embraces Mar- 
ion.) 

Dr. y. Farewell, my boy ! To talk about any 
serious correspondence or serious affections, and en- 
gagements, and so forth, in such a — ha, ha, ha ! — you 
know what I mean, — why that, of course, would be 
sheer nonsense. All I can say is, that if you and Mar- 
ion should continue in the same foolish minds, I shall 
not object to have you for a son-in-law one of these 
days. 

Brit. Over the bridge ! 

Alf. {^Shaking Dr. Jeddler's hand.) Let it come ! 
Think of me sometimes, my old friend and guardian, 
as seriously as you can ! Adieu, Mr. Snitchey ! Fare- 
well, Mr. Craggs I 



THE BATTLE OF LIFE. 121 

Brit. Coming down the road ! 

Alf. A kiss of Clemency Newcome, for long ac- 
quaintance' sake ! Shake hands, Britain ! Marion, 
dearest heart, good-by ! Sister Grace ! remember ! 

\_Exit. Grace looks after /ii??i, Marion 
looks away. 
Grace. He waves his hat to you, my love. Your 
chosen husband, darling. Look ! 

[Marion tiir72s and looks a moment., then 
falls on Grace's neck. 
Mar. {Sobbing.) O, Grace! God bless you ! 
But I cannot bear to see it, Grace ! It breaks ' my 
heart. 



122 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 



" SXITCHEY AND CrAGGS.'* 

Scene : A Law Office. Messrs. Snitchey a7id 
Craggs seated at opposite sides of a desk. Mn. 
Warden in ajt ar7n'chair itear the?fi, 0?t the 
table^ numerous law papers^ a box from which 
they have been takeit^ and two lighted candles. 

Snitchey. {^Taking zip a paper.) That's all. 
Really there's no other resource. No other resource. 

Warden. All lost, spent, wasted, pawned, bor- 
rowed, and sold, eh ? 

Snit. All. 

War. Nothing else to be done, j^ou say.? 

Snit. Nothing at all. 

War. {After refection.) And I am not even 
personally safe in England? You hold to that, do 
you ? 

S?iit. In no part of the United Kingdom of Great 
Britain and Ireland. 

War. A mere prodigal son, with no father to go 
back to, no swine to keep, and no husks to share with 
them? Eh? (Mr. Snitchey coughs.) Ruined at 
thirty ! Humph ! 

Snit. Not ruined, Mr. Warden. Not so bad as 
that. You have done a good deal towards it, I must 
say, but you are not ruined. A little nursing — 

IVar. A little devil ! 

S72it. Mr. Craggs, will you oblige me with a pinch 
of snuff? Thank you, sir. 

War. You talk of nursinf^. How loner nursincr? 



THE BATTLE OF LIFE. 1 23 

Snii. How long nursing? (Dusts the smtfffrom 
his jingers^ and makes a oriental calculation.') For 
your involved estate, sir? In good hands? S. and 
C.'s, say? Six or seven years. 

War. {Impatie7ztly.) To stane. for six or seven 
years ! 

Snit, To starve for six or seven years, Mr. War- 
den, would be very uncommon indeed. You might 
get another estate by showing yourself, the while. But 
we don't think you could do it, — speaking for Self 
and Craggs, — and consequently don't advise it. 

Wa?'. What do you advise ? 

Sizit. Nursing, I say. Some few years of nursing 
by Self and Craggs would bring it round. But, to 
enable us to make terms, and hold terms, and you to 
keep terms, you must go away ; you must live abroad. 
As to starvation, we could insure you some hundreds 
a year to starve upon, even in the beginnuig, — I dare 
say, Mr. Warden. 

War, Hundreds ! And I have spent thousands ! 

Snit. (^Putting his papers azuay.) That, there 
is no doubt about. No doubt a — bout. 

War, After all, my iron-headed friend — 

Snit. {Pointing to Craggs.) Self and — excuse 
me — Craggs. 

War. I beg Mr. Craggs's pardon. After all, my 
iron-headed friends, you don't know half my ruin yet. 
(Snitchey and Craggs starts and stare at him.) 
I am not only deep in debt, but I am deep in — 

S?iit. Not in love ! 

War. Yes ! {Falls back in his chair., aiid stir- 
veys them zvith his hands in his pockets.) Deep in 
love. 



134 DIALOGUES FROM DICK1':NS. 

Suit. And not with an heiress, sir? 

War. Not with an heiress. 

Snit. Nor a rich lady ? 

War. Nor a rich lady, that I know of — except in 
beauty and merit. 

Suit. A single lady, I trust? 

War. Certainly. 

Snit. {^Suddenly squaring around to him.) It's 
not one of Dr. Jeddler's daughters? 

War. Yes ! 

Snit. Not his younger daughter? 

War. Yes. 

Snit. {Mzcch relieved.) Mr. Craggs, will you 
oblige me with another pinch of snuft? Thank you ! 
I am happy to say it don't signify, Mr. Warden ; she's 
engaged, sir, she's bespoke. My partner can corrobo- 
rate me. We know the fact. 

Crao-<rs. We know the fact. 

War. Why, so do I, perhaps. What of that? 
Ai*e you men of the world, and did you never hear 
of a woman changing her mind? 

Snit. There certainly have been actions for breach, 
brought against both spinsters and widows ; but, in 
the majority of cases — 

War. (^Impatiently.) Cases ! Don't talk to me 
of cases ! The general precedent is in a much larger 
volume than any of your law books. Besides, do you 
think I have lived six weeks in the Doctor's house for 
nothing? 

Snit. {To Craggs.) I think, sir, that, of all the 
scrapes Mr. Warden's horses have brought him into 
at one time and anoUier, the worst scrape may turn 



THE BATTLE OF LIFE. I25 

out to be, if he tallvs in this way, his having been ever 
left by one of them at the Doctor's garden wall, with 
three broken ribs, a snapped collar-bone, and the Lord 
knov^^s how many bruises. We didn't think so much 
of it at the time, when we knew he was going on 
well under the Doctor's hands and roof; but it looks 
bad now, sir. Bad? It looks very bad. Doctor 
Jeddler too — our client, Mr. Craggs. 

Craggs, Mr. Alfred Heatlufield, too — a sort of 
client, Mr. Snitchey. 

War. Mr. Michael Warden too, — a kind of client, 
and no bad one either, having played the fool for ten 
or twelve years. However, Mr. Michael Warden has 
sown his wild oats now, — there's their crop, in that 
box ; and he means to repent and be wise. And, in 
proof of it, Mr. Michael Warden means, if he can, to 
marry Marion, the Doctor's lovely daughter, and to 
carry her away with him. 

Snit. Really, Mr. Craggs — 

War. Really, Mr. Snitchey, and Mr. Craggs, part- 
ners both, you know your duty to your clients ; and 
you know well enough, I am sure, that it is no part 
of it to interfere in a mere love affair, which I am 
obliged to confide to you. I am not going to carry 
the young lady off without her own consent. There's 
nothing illegal in it. I never was Mr. Heathfield's 
bosom friend. I vioLate no confidence of his. I love 
where he loves ; and I mean to win where he would 
win, if I can. 

Snit. {Aizxiozisly.) He can't, Mr. Craggs; he 
can't do it, sir. She dotes on Mr. Alfred. 
War. Does she? 



126 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

Snit. Mr. Craggs, she dotes on him, sir. 

War. I didn't live six weeks, some few months 
ago, in the Doctor's ho.ise for nothing ; and I doubted 
that soon. She would have doted on him, if her sister 
could have brought it about ; but I w^atched them. 
Marion avoided his name, avoided the subject; shrunk 
from the least allusion to it, with evident distress. 

Snit, Why should she, Mr. Craggs, you know.^ 
Why should she, sir? 

Wa7\ I don't knovsr why she should, though there • 
are many likely reasons ; but I know she does. She 
was very young when she made the engagement, — if 
it may be called one ; I am not even sure of that, — 
and has repented of it, perhaps. Perhaps — it seems 
a foppish thing to say, but upon my soul I don't mean 
it in that light — she may have fallen in love with me, 
as I have fallen in love with her. 

Snit. He, he ! Mr. Alfred, her old playfellow too, 
you remember, Mr. Craggs ; knew her almost from a 
baby ! 

War. Which makes it the more probable that she 
may be tired of his idea, and not indisposed to ex- 
change it for the new^er one of another lover, who 
presents himself under romantic circumstances ; has 
the not unfavorable reputation — with a country girl 

— of having lived thoughtlessly and gayly, without 
doing much harm to anybody ; and who, for his youth 
and figure, and so forth, — this may seem foppish 
again, but upon my soul I don't mean it in that light, 

— might, perhaps, pass muster in a crowd with Mr. 
Alfred himself. 

Sftit. {Aside.) A dangerous sort of fellow to 



THE BATTLE OF LIFE. 1 27 

seem to catch the spark he wants from a young lady's 
eyes. 

IFar. {Risii2g, and taking Snitchey by the but- 
ton.) Now, observe, Snitchey, and Cragos {takes 
him by the button also), I don't ask you for any ad- 
vice. You are right to keep quite aloof from all par- 
ties in such a matter. I am briefly going to review, in 
half a dozen words, my position and intention, and 
then I shall leave it to you to do the best for me, in 
money matters, that you can ; seeing that, if I run 
away with the Doctor's beautiful daughter (as I hope 
to do, and to become another man under her bright 
influence), it will be, for the moment, more chargeable 
than running aiway alone. But I shall soon make ^11 
that up in an altered hfe. 

Sfiit, I think it will be better not to hear this, Mr. 
Craggs? {Both listen attentively.) 
Ci-aggs. I think not. 

War, Well ! You needn't hear it. I'll mention 
it, however. I don't mean to ask the Doctor's con- 
sent, because he wouldn't give it me. But I mean to 
do the Doctor no wrong or harm, because (besides 
there being nothing serious in such trifles, as he says) 
I hope to rescue his child, my Marion, from what I 
see — I know — she dreads, and contemplates with 
misery ; that is, the return of this old lover. If any- 
thing in the world is true, it is true that she dreads 
his return. Nobody is injured so far. I am so har- 
ried and worried here, just now, that I lead the life 
of a flying-fish. I skulk about in the dark ; I am shut 
out of my own house, and warned oft' my own 
grounds ; but that house and those grounds, and 



138 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

many an acre besides, will come back to nie one day, 
as you know and say ; and Marion will probably be 
richer — on your showing, who are never sanguine — 
ten years hence, as my wife, than as the wife of Alfred 
Heathfield, w^iose return she dreads (remember that), 
and in whom, or in any man, my passion is not sur- 
passed. Who is injured yet? It is a fair case through- 
out. My right is as good as his, if she decide in my 
favor, and I will try my right by her alone. You will 
like to know no more after this, and I will tell you no 
more. Now you know my purpose, and wants. When 
must I leave here? 

Snit. In a week. Mr. Crasrsrs ? 

Craggs. In something less, I should say. 

War. In a month. This day month. To-day is 
Thursday. Succeed or fail, on this day month I go. 

Snit. It's too long a delay — much too long. But 
let it be so. (Asz'de.) I thought he'd have stipulated 
for three. Are you going? Good night, sir ! 

War. Goodnight! You'll live to see me making 
a good use of riches yet. Henceforth the star of my 
destiny is — Marion ! 

Sm'L {^Lightiitg hi?n out.) Take care of the 
stairs, sir, for she don't shine there. Good night ! 

War. Good night ! 

\^Exit Warden. Snitchey ajtd Craggs 
stand staring at each other. 

Snit. What do you think of all this, Mr. Craggs.!^ 
(Craggs shakes his head.) It was our opinion, on 
the day when that release was executed, that there 
was something curious in the parting of that pair, I 
recollect. 



THE BATTLE OF LIFE. 



129 



Craggs. It was. 

Snit. Perhaps he deceives himself altogether. 
{Locks his dox, and puts it azvay.) Or, if he don't, 
a little bit of fickleness and perfidy is not a miracle, 
Mr. Craggs. And yet I thought that pretty face was 
very true. I thought [puts on his coat and gloves^ 
and snuffs out one candle) that I had even seen her 
character becoming stronger and more resolved of late 
— more like her sister's. 

Craggs. Mrs. Craggs was of the same opinion. 

Sjizt. {Shaking his head.) I'd really give a trifle 
to-night if I could believe that Mr. Warden was reck- 
oning without his host ; but, light-headed, capricious, 
and unballasted as he is, he knows something of the 
world and its people (he ought to, for he has bought 
what he does know dear enough) ; and I can't quite 
think that. We had better not interfere ; we can do 
nothing, Mr. Craggs, but keep quiet. 

Craggs. Nothing. 

S7iit. Our friend the Doctor makes light of such 
things ; I hope he mayn't stand in need of his phi- 
losophy. Our friend Alfred talks of the battle of life ; 
I hope he mayn't be cut down early in the day. Have 
you got your hat, Mr. Craggs ? I am going to put the 
other candle out. 

Craggs. All ready. 

[Snitchi£Y puts out the other candle^ and 
exeunt ojnnes. 
9 



30 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 



HOME. 

Scene, Dr. Jeddler's Study. Dr. Jeddler in his 
easy-chair; Grace, sewing; Marion, reading 
aloud. 

Marion. {Reading.) " And being in her own 
home, her home made exquisitely dear by these re- 
membrances, she now began to know that the great 
trial of her heart must soon come on, and could not be 
delayed. O Home, our comforter and friend when 
others fall away, to part with whom, at any step be- 
tween the cradle and the grave " — 

Grace. Marion, my love ! 

Dr. y. Why, Puss ! What's the matter.? 

Mar. {Reads., with trembling voice.) " To part 
with whom, at any step between the cradle and the 
grave, is always sorrowful. O Home, so true to 
us, so often slighted in return, be lenient to them 
that turn away from thee, and do not haunt their 
erring footsteps too reproachfully ! Let no kind 
looks, no well-remembered smiles be seen upon thy 
phantom face. Let no ray of aftection, welcome, gen- 
tleness, forbearance, cordiality, shine from thy white 
head. Let no old loving word, or tone, rise up in 
judgment against thy deserter ; but if thou canst look 
harshly and severely, do, in mercy to the Penitent." 

Grace. Dear Marion, read no more to-night. 

Mar. {Closiizg the book.) I cannot. The w^ords 

seem all on fire ! 

*■■ 

Dr. y. {Laughing^ a?id patting her on the head) 



THE BATTLE OF LIFE. I3I 

What ! overcome by a story-book ! Print and paper ! 
Well, well, it's all one. It's as rational to make a seri- 
ous matter of print and paper as of anything else. But, 
dry your eyes, love, dry your eyes. I dare say the 
heroine has got home again long ago, and made it up 
all round — and if she hasn't, a real home is only four 
walls ; and a fictitious one, mere rags and ink. (Clem- 
ency Newcome looks in at the door^ c.) What's the 
matter now.? 

New. It's only me, Mister. 

lyr. y. And what's the matter \N\\h you? 

New. {Enterlvg.) O, bless you, nothing ain't 
the matter with me. Nothing ain't the matter with 
me; but — come a little closer. Mister. (Dr. Jed- 
dler app7'oaches her.) 

New. You said I wasn't to give you one before 
them, you know. 

Dr.y One.? What? 

New. {Hunts Jirst in one pockety and then in the 
other, and draws out a letter., which she haiids to 
Dr. Jeddler ; he otens it slowly ) Britain was rid- 
ing by on an errand, and see the mail come in, and 
waited for it. There's A. H. in the corner. {Aside.) 
Mr. Alfred's on his journey home, I bet. We shall 
have a wedding in the house — there was two spoons 
in my saucer this morning. O Luck, how slow he 
opens it ! 

Dr. y. Here ! Girls ! I can't help it ; I never 
could keep a secret in my life. There are not many 
secr^s, indeed, worth being kept in such a — Well ! 
never mind that. Alfred's coming home, my dears, 
directlv. 



132 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

Mar. Directly ? 

Dr. y. (^Plnchhtg her cheek.') What ! The 
story-book is soon forgotten ! I thought the news 
would dry those tears. Yes. Let it be a surprise, 
he says, here. But I can't let it be a surprise. He 
must iiave a welcome. 

Mar. Directly ! 

Dr.y. Why, perhaps, not what your impatience 
calls directly, but pretty soon, too. Let us see ! Let us 
see ! To-day is Thursday — is it not.? Then he prom- 
ises to be here, this day month. 

Mar. {Softly.) This day month ! 

Grace. {Kissing her.) A gay day and a holiday 
for us. Long looked forward to, dearest, and come 
at last. 

[Dr. Jeddler returns to his easy-chair .^ and 
reads the letter agaiji. 

Dr. y. {Lookijig at the Jire.) Ah! The day 
was, when you and he, Grace, used to trot about, arm- 
in-arm, in his holiday time, like a couple of walking 
dolls. You remember? 

Grace. {Sezuing.) I remember ! 

Dr. y. This day month, indeed ! That hardly 
seems a twelvemonth ago. And where was my little 
Marion then ! 

Mar. Never far from her sister, however little. 
Grace was everything to me, even when she was a 
young child herself. 

Dr. y. True, Puss, true. She was a staid little w^o- 
man, was Grace, and a wise housekeeper, and a busy, 
quiet, pleasant body ; bearing with our humors, and 
anticipating our wishes, and always ready to forget 



THE BATTLE OF LIFE. I33 

her own, oven in those times. I never knew you posi- 
tive or obstinate, Grace, my darling, even then, on any 
subject but one. 

Grace. I am afraid I have changed sadly for the 
worse since. What was that one, father.? 

Dr. y. Alfred, of course. Nothing would serve 
you, but you must be called Alfred's wife ; so we called 
you Alfred's wife ; and you liked it better, I believe 
(odd as it seems now), than being called a Duchess, if 
we could have made you one. 

Grace. Indeed ! 

Dr. y. Why, don't you remember? 

Grace. I think I remember something of it, but not 
much. It's so long ago. {^Hums a tune.) Alfred 
will find a real wife soon, and that will be a happy 
time, indeed, for all of us. M}' three years' trust is 
nearly at an end, Marion. It has been a very easv one. 
I shall tell Alfred, when I give you back to him, that 
you have loved him dearly all the time, and that he 
has never once needed my good services. May I tell 
him so, love.? 

Mar. Tell him,*dear Grace, that there never w^as 
a trust so generously, nobly, steadfastly discharged ; 
and that I have loved you., all the time, dearer and 
dearer every day ; and O ! how dearly now ! 

Grace. Nay! I can scarcely tell him that; we 
will leave my deserts to Alfred's imagination. It will 
be liberal enough, dear Marion ; like your own. 

\_Curtam. 



134 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 



A Mystery. 

Scene : Kitchen in Dr. Jeddler's house. Door^ 
c, leading into garden; two doors^ r. Stove^ l. 
A tahle^ c. Britain seated^ a pipe i^i his mouth ; 
a mug of bee7' at his elbow. Enter,, r., Clemen- 
cy Newcome, a7td sits at table opposite Britain. 

Britain, {Nodding to Newcome.) Well, Clem- 
my, how are you by this time, and what's the news? 

Newcome. A letter from Mr. Heathfield. He's 
coming home. 

Brit. Is he, indeed ! {Puff's slowly at his pipe.) 
TJiere'll be another job for Snitchey and Craggs, I sup- 
pose. More witnessing for you and me, perhaps, 
Clemmy ! 

New. Lor ! I wish it was me, Britain ! 

Brit. Wish what was you? 

New. A-going to be married. 

Brit. {Laughing heartily.) Yes ! you're a like- 
ly subject for that ! Poor Clem ! 

New. {Laughing.) Yes, I'm a likely subject for 
that — ain't I ? 

Brit. TouW never be married, you know. 

New. Don't you think I ever shall, though ? 

Brit. {Shaking his head.) Not a chance of it ! 

New. Only think ! Well ! — I suppose you mean 
to, Britain, one of these days — don't you? 

Brit. {Blovjing smoke out of his mouth aiid re- 
flecti7tg.) Well, I'm not altogether clear about it. 
However, I suppose 1 may come to that at last.— 
Ye-es — very likel3\ 



THE BATTLE OF LIFE. 135 

New. I wish her joy,whoever she may be. 

Bi'it. O, she'll have that, safe enough. 

JVczu. {^Leaning 'with both elbows on the table and 
staring at the candle.) But she woukhi't have led 
quite such a joyful life as she will lead, and wouldn't 
have had quite such a sociable sort of husband as she 
will have, if it hadn't been for — not that I went to do 
it, for it was accidental, I am sure — if it hadn't been 
for me — now would she, Britain .? 

Brit. ( Gravely.) Certainly not. O ! I'm great- 
ly beholden to you, you know, Clem. 

JVew. Lor, how nice that is to think of! {Anoints 
her elbow ivith candle grease.) 

Brit. You see I've made a good many investiga- 
tions of one sort and another in my time, having been 
always of an inquiring turn of mind ; and I've read a 
good many books about the general Rights of things 
and Wrongs of things, for I went into the literary line 
myself when I began life. 

New. Did you, though? 

Brit. Yes ! I was hid for the best part of two 
years behind a book stall, ready to fly out if anybody 
pocketed a volume ; and after that, I was light porter 
to a stay and mantua-maker', in which capacity I was 
employed to carry about, in oilskin baskets, nothing 
but deceptions — which soured my spirits and dis- 
turbed my confidence in human nature ; and after that, 
I heard a world of discussions in this house, which 
soured my spirits fresh ; and my opinion after all is, 
that, as a safe and comfortable sweetener of the same, 
and as a pleasant guide through life, there's nothing 
like a nutmeg-grater — (Newxome is about.to speak. 



136 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

hut he stops her by puttiitg out his hand) — com- 
bined with a thimble. 

New. {Folding her arms and fattiiig her elbows.) 
Do as 3'ou wold, you know, and cetrer, eh? Such a 
short cut — ain't it ? 

Brit. I'm not sure that' it's what w^ould be consid- 
ered good philosophy. I've my doubts about that ; 
but it were as well, and saves a quantity of snarling, 
which the genuine article don't always. 

New. See how you used to go on once, yourself, 
you know ! 

Brit. Ah ! But the most extraordinary thing, 
Clemmy, is, that I should live to be brought round, 
through you. That's the strange part of it. Through 
you ! Why, I suppose you haven't so rnuch as half 
an idea in your head. 

Nezv. {^Shakiitg her head and laughing.) No, I 
don't suppose I have. 

Brit, I'm pretty sure of it. 

New. O ! I dare say you're right. I don't pretend 
to none. I don't want any. 

Brit. ( Taking his pipe frofn his mouth and 
laughing.) What a natural you are, Clemmy ! ( Wipes 
his eyes. Newcoivie also laughs.) I can't help lik- 
ing you ; you're a regular good creature in your wa}', 
so shake hands, Clem. Whatever happens, I'll always 
take notice of you, and be a friend to you. 

New. Will you? Well ! that's very good of you. 

Brit. {^K7iocki7ig the ashes out of his pipe.) Yes, 
yes, I'll stand by you. Hark ! That's a curious 
noise ! 



THE BATTLE OF LIFE. I37 

Brit. A footstep outside. Somebody dropping 
from the wall, it sounded like. Are they all abed 
up stairs? 

New. Yes, all abed by this time. 

Brit. Didn't you hear anything? 

New. No. {Both listen attentively.^ 

Brit. {Rising- and taking- down a lantern?) I 
tell you what, I'll have a look round, before I go to 
bed myself, for satisfaction's sake. Undo the door 
while 1 light this, Clemmy ! {Lights lanter7i ; New- 
come opens c. D.) 

New. It's all your fancy. You'll have your walk 
for your pains. 

Brit. { Takiitg his laiitern and the poker ^ Very 
likely. {Exit c.) 

New. {Looking after him.) It's as quiet as a 
church-yard, and almost as ghostly, too. 

Enter Marion, r. 

Netv. {Turning.) What's that ! 

Mar. Hush ! You have always loved me — have 
you not ! 

New. Loved you, child ! You may be sure I have ! 

Alar. I am sure. And I may trust you — may I 
not? There is no one else just now, in whom I can 
trust. 

New. {Heartily.) Yes. 

Mar. {Pointing to the door., c.) There is some 
one there, whom I must see, and speak with to-night. 
( Thejigiire of a man appears in the darkness outside. 
Newcome starts back.) Michael Warden, for God's 
sake retire I Not now ! In another moment you may 



138 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

be discovered. Not now ! Wait, if you can, in some 
concealment. I will come presently. (^Figure van- 
ishes. To Newcome.) Don't go to bed. Wait here 
for me ! I have been seeking to speak to you for an 
hour past. O, be true to me ! 

\_Rxit Marion, r., Newcome falls trem- 
bling into a chair, L. c. 

Brit. (^Entering., c. d.) All still and peaceable. 
Nobody there. Fancy, I suppose. {Locks the door.) 
One of the effects of having a lively imagination. 
Halloa ! Why, what's the matter.? 

JVe^dj. {Nervously.) Matter! That's good in you, 
Britain — that is ! After going and frightening one 
out of one's life with noises, and lanterns, and I don't 
know what all. Matter ! O, yes ! 

Brit. {Blowing out laiitern and hangifig it up.) 
If you're frightened out of your life by a lantern, 
Clemmy, that apparition's very soon got rid of. But 
you're as bold as brass in general, and were, after the 
noise of the lantern, too. What have you taken into 
your head ? Not an idea, eh } 

New. {Putting azvay table and chairs.) Good- 
night, Britain. 

Brit. {Staring at her.) W^ell, well! There's 
no accounting for a woman's whims ! Good-night I 

\_Exit R. u. E., with candle. 

Mar. {Re-enteri7tg., r.) Open the door, and stand 
there close beside me, while I speak to him, outside. 
[Newcome unlocks the c. d. ; turns to Mar- 
ion, and throws her arms about her 7ieck. 

New. {Sobbing.) It's little that I know, my dear, 
very little ; but I know that this should not be. Think 
of what you do ! 



THE BATTLE OF LIFE. I39 

Mar. ( Gently^ I have thought of It many times. 

New. Once more ! Till to-morrow. (Marion 
shakes her head.) For Mr. Alfred's sake ! Him that 
you used to love so dearly, once ! 

Mar. i^Hiding her face hi her hands.) Once ! 

New. Let me go out. I'll tell him w^hat you 
like. Don't cross the door-step to-night. I'm sure no 
good will come of it. O, it was an unhappy day when 
Mr. Warden was ever brought here ! Think of your 
good father, darling — of your sister. 

Mar. (^Hastily raising her head.) I have. You 
don't know what I do. You don't know what I do. 
I must speak to him. You are the best and truest friend 
in all the world for what you have said to me, but I 
must take this step. Will you go with me. Clemency 
{Kisses her)., or shall I go alone? 

[Newcome slowly opens the door., and they 
go out together^ Marion holdiitg New- 
come's hand. Curtain. 



140 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 



The Welcome. 

Scene : Dr. Jeddler's Parlors, a7'7'anged for an 
evening -party. Present^ Grace a7id Marion. 

Grace. (^Arranging a wreath on Marion's /lead.) 
The next wreath I adjust on this fair head will be a 
marriage wreath, or I am no true prophet, dear. 

Marion. (^Embracing her.) A moment, Grace. 
Don't leave me yet. Are you sure that I want nothing 
more? 

Grace. My art can go no farther, dear girl ; nor 
your beauty. I never saw you look so beautiful as 
now. 

Mar. I never was so happy. 

Grace. Ay, but there is a greater happiness in 
store. In such another home, as cheerful and as 
bright as this looks now, Alfred and his young wife 
will soon be living. 

Mar. (^Smiling.) It is a happy home, Grace, in 
your fancy. I can see it in your eyes. I know it will 
be happy, dear. How glad I am to know it ! 

Dr. J. (^Entering., l.) Well, here we are, all 
ready for Alfred, eh ? He can't be here until pretty 
late — an hoin- or so before midnight — so there'll be 
plenty of time for making merry before he comes. He'll 
not find us with the ice unbroken. ( Calling off.) Pile 
up the fire here, Britain ! Let it shine upon the holly till 
it winks again ! It's a world of nonsense, Puss ; true 
lovers and all the rest of it '■ — all nonsense : but we'll 
be nonsensical with the rest of 'em, and give our true 



THE BATTLE OF LIFE. Izj.1 

lover a mad welcome. Upon my word {looks proudly 
at theni)^ I'm not clear to-night, among other absur- 
dities, but that I'm the father of two handsome girls. 
Mar. All that one of them has ever done, or may 
do — may do, dearest fiither — to cause you pain or 
grief, forgive her — forgive her now, when her heart 
is full. Say that you forgive her. That you will for- 
give her. That she shall always share your love, 
and — {Hides her^ace 07t his shoulder.^ 

Dr. y. Tut, tut, tut ! Forgive ! What have I to 
forgive ? Heydey ! if our true lovers come back to 
flurry us like this, we must hold them at a distance, 
until we're properly prepared to meet 'em. Kiss me. 
Puss. Forgive ! Why, what a silly child you are ! 
If you had vexed and crossed me fifty times a day, 
instead of not at all, I'd forgive you everything, but 
such a supplication. Kiss me again. Puss. There ! 
Prospective and retrospective — a clear score between 
us. Pile up the fire here ! Would 3'ou freeze the 
people on this bleak December night ! Let us be 
light, and warm, and merry, or I'll not forgive some 
of you ! 

[ Company begiits to assemble. E^iter Mr. 
and Mrs. Craggs, arm in arm., c. d. ; 
Mrs. Snitchey, alone. Salutations ex- 
changed. Alore guests arrive ; jniisic. 
{on the stage) ; Sets formed for dancing. 
Dr, y. Why ! where is Mr. Snitchey, ma'am ? 
What's become of him? 

Mrs. Snitchey. I don't know, Doctor Jeddler : 
doubtless Mr. Craggs does. / am never told. 
Airs. Craggs. That nasty office ! 



142 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

Mrs. Snlt. I wish it was burnt down ! 

Ci'aggs. {Looking ujieasily about?) He's — he's 
— there's a Httle matter of business that keeps my 
partner rather late. 

J\lrs, Snzt. Oh — h! Business! Don't tell me ! 

Mrs. Craggs. We know what business means. I 
\NOr\diQY you could come away, Mr. Craggs. 

J\Irs. Snit, Mr. Craggs is fortunate, I'm sure. 

Mrs. Craggs. That office so engrosses 'em ! 

Mrs. Sitit. A person w^ith an office has no busi- 
ness to be married at all. 

Mrs. Craggs. {To Mr. Craggs.) Your Snltch- 
eys are deceiving you behind your back, sir, and 
you'll find it out, when it's too late. 

Craggs. {Going to Gv.KC'E.') Good evening, ma'am. 
You look charmingl}^ Your — Miss — your sister, 
Miss Maj-ion, is slie — 

Grace. Oh, she's quite well, Mr. Craggs. 

Craggs. Yes — I — is she here ? 

Grace. Here! Don't you see her yonder? Going 
to dance? 

[Craggs puts on his spectacles., and looks; 
coughs; removes the spectacles., and puts 
them away. Daizcing commences., c. ; 
Craggs looks on., r. Snitchey enters^ 
unobserved., c. D. ; crosses to Craggs, r., 
and touches him on the ariJi. 

Craggs. {Starting.) Is lie gone? 

S72it. Hush ! He has been with me for three 
hours and more. He went over everything. He 
looked into all our arrangements for him, and was 
very particular indeed. He — Humph! 



THE BATTLE OF LIFE. I43 

\_Dance breaks z/p. Marion passes by with- 
out seeing them; goes slowly through 
the crowds afzd disappears^ l., looking 
over her shoulder at Gracp:, as she goes 
out, 
Craggs. (r.) You see ! All safe and well. He 
didn't recur to that subject, I suppose? 
Snit. (r.) Not a word. 

Craggs. And is he really gone? Is he safe away? 
Snit. He keeps to his word. He drops down the 
river with the tide, in that shell of a boat of his, and 
so goes out to sea on this dark night ! — a dare-devil 
he is — before the wind. There's no such lonely road 
anywhere else. That's one thing. The tide flows, he 
says, an hour before midnight — about this time. I'm 
glad it's over ! ( Wiping his forehead.) 
Craggs. What do you think about — 
S7iit. (^Looking straight before hi7n.) Hush ! 
I understand you. Don't mention names, and don't 
let us seem to be talking secrets. I don't know what 
to think, and, to tell you the truth, I don't care now. 
It's a great relief. His self-love deceived him, I sup- 
pose. Perhaps the young lady coquetted a little. 
The evidence would seem to point that way. Alfred 
not arrived? 

Craggs. Not yet. Expected every minute. 
Snit. ( Wipij2g his forehead again^ Good I 
It's a great relief. I haven't been so nervous since 
we've been in partnership. I intend to s]Dend the 
evening now, Mr. Craggs. 

[Mrs. Craggs a?id Mrs. Snitchey join 
them. 



144 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

3Irs. Sitit. (r.) It has been the theme of general 
comment, Mr. Snitchey. I hope the office is satisfied. 

Snit. Satisfied with what, my dear.? 

Mrs. Snit. With tlie exposure of a defenceless 
woman to ridicule and remark. That is quite in the 
way of the office, that is. 

Mrs. Craggs. I really, myself, have been so long 
accustomed to connect the office with everything op- 
posed to domesticity, that I am glad to know it as the 
avow^ed enemy of my peace. There is something 
honest in that, at all events. 

Craggs. My dear, your good opinion is invaluable, 
but /never avowed that the office was the enemy of 
your peace. 

Mrs. Craggs. No, not you, indeed ! You wouldn't 
be worthy of the office, if you had the candor to. 

Snit. ( Giving Mrs. Snitchey his arm.) As to 
my having been away to-night, my dear, the depriva- 
tion has been mine, I'm sure ; but, as Mr. Craggs 
knows — 

Airs. Snit. {^Drawing him aside., l. c.) Mr. 
Snitchey, look at that man ! {Poi?zts to Craggs.) 
Will you do me the* favor to look at him? 

S72it, At which man, my dear? 

Mrs. Snit. Your chosen companion ; /'m no 
companion to you, Mr. Snitchey. 

Snit. Yes, yes, you are, my dear. 

Airs. Snit. {Smiling majestically.) No, no, I'm 
not. I know my station. Will you look at your 
chosen companion, Mr. Snitchey ; at your referee ; at 
the keeper of your secrets ; at the man you trust ; 
at your other self, in short? (Snitchey looks at 



THE BATTLE OF LIFE. I45 

Craggs.) If you can look that man in the eye this 
night, and not know that you are dehided, practised 
upon, made the victim of his arts, and bent down 
prostrate to his will by some unaccountable fascina- 
tion, which it is impossible to explain, and against 
which no warning of mine is of the least avail, all I 
can say is — I pity you ! 

Mrs. Craggs. ( To Mr. Craggs, r.) Is it possible, 
Mr. Craggs, that you can so blind yourself to your 
Snitcheys as not to feel your true position? Do you 
mean to say that you have seen your Snitcheys come 
into this room, and have not plainly seen that there Is 
reservation, cunning, treacher}^, in tlie man? Can 
you have the least doubt that there's something weigh- 
ing on the conscience of your precious Snitcheys (If 
he has a conscience), that won't bear the light? Did 
ever anybody but jour Snitcheys come to festive enter- 
tainments like a burglar? 

[Mr. Craggs shrugs his shoulders^ and does 
not reply. A. country dance is called. 
Craggs. {^Approaching Mrs. Snitchey.) May 
I have the pleasure, ma'am? 

Mrs. Snit. Why don't you ask some one else, Mr. 
Craggs? You'll be glad, I know, if I decline. 

\_She takes his arm. 
Snit. {Crossing to Mrs. Craggs.) Will you do 
me the honor? 

Mrs. Craggs. {yocosely.) Really, Mr. Snitchey ! 
I wonder you can dance out of the office ! 

[^Takes his arm; they Join the dajzcers. 
Exit Grace,- l. ; Dr. Jeddler rings. 
Enter Britain, l. u. e. 
10 



146 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

Dr. y. (l.) Anything been seen, Britain? Any- 
thing been heard ? 

Brit. Too dark to see far, sir. Too much noise 
inside the house to hear. 

Dr. y. That's right ! The gayer welcome for 
him. How goes the time? 

Brit. Just twelve, sir. He can't be long, sir. 

Dr. y. Stir up the fire, and throw another log 
upon it. Let him see his welcome blazing out upon 
the night — good boy ! — as he comes along. 

\_Exit Britain, l. u. e. The dance goes on. 
Enter Newxome hastily., l. She goes 
to c. D., and meets Alfred as he is en- 
tering. She recoils with a cry. 

Alf. Clemency, don't you know me? 

New. {^Pushing him back.) Don't come in ! Go 
away ! Don't ask me why. Don't come in. 

Alf. What is the matter? 

New. I don't know. I — I am afraid to think. 
Go back, (yl scream in room^ l.) Hark ! (Grace 
enters., followed by her father., the latter with a 
paper in his hand. Both hurry to door^ c.) 

Alf. {^Catching Grace iii his ar7ns.) Grace! 
What is it? Is she dead? {^She disengages her- 
self and falls at his feet. The guests crowd 
around thern. Alfred, on his kizees^ bends over 
Grace.) What is it? Will no one look at me? 
Will no one speak to me? Does no one know me? 
Is there no voice, among you all, to tell me what 
it is? 

Voices. (In a low murmur.) She is gone ! 

Alf. Gone? 



THE BATTLE OF LIFE. I47 

Dr. y. ( Cover? n^ his face zuit/i his hands.) 
Fled, my dear Alfred ! Gone from her home and 
us ! To-night ! She writes that she has made her 
innocent and blameless choice — entreats that we 
will forgive her — prays that we will not forget her — 
and is gone ! 

Alf. {Siarti7tg- tip.) With whom? Where? 

\_Falls back into his former position. Ta- 
bleau. Ctirtain, 



148 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 



" The Nutmeg-Grater." 

Scene : Bar-room of the Inn ; l. c. Time^ six years 
later. Tea table spread for two; near window ^ 
R., a7iotJier table; chairs^ &c. 

Brit. ( Going to c. d., aitd looking down the 
road.) Mrs. Britain is rather late. It's tea time. 
{Steps out and looks up at the house.) It's just the 
sort of house I should wish to stop at, if I didn't keep 
it. {Re-enters^ She's a long time coming. {Sits 
dozv7i.) She hadn't much to do, I think. There were 
a few little matters of business after market, but not 
many. ( Wagon heard.) O ! here we are at last ! 
{Rising and going to door.) You're late, Clemmy ! 

Mrs. B. (Clemency Newcome.) Why, you see, 
Ben, I've had a deal to do ! ( Counting bu7idles as 
Britain brings them in.) Eight, nine, ten — whei;e's 
eleven } O ! my basket's eleven ! It's all right. 
( Calling off., c. d.) Put the horse up, Harry, and 
if he coughs again give him a warm mash to-night. 
Eight, nine, ten. Why, where's eleven .f* O, I forgot, 
it's all right. How's the children, Ben.? 

Brit. Hearty, Clemmy, hearty. 

Afrs. B. Bless their precious faces ! ( Taking off 
her bonnet and smoothi72g her hair.) Give us a 
kiss, old man. (Britain complies.) I think {draw- 
ing papers and account books froin her pocket) I've 
done everything. Bills all settled — turnips sold — 
brewer's account looked into and paid — 'bacco pipes 
ordered — seventeen pound four paid into the Bank 



THE BATTLK OF LIFE. I49 

— Dr. Heathfield's charge for little Clem — you'll 
guess what that is — Dr. Heathfield won't take noth- 
ing again, Ben. 

Brit. I thought he wouldn't. 

Mrs. B. No. He says whatever family you was 
to have, Ben, he'd never put you to the cost of a half- 
penny. Not if you was to have twenty. (.Mr. Brit- 
ain looks serious., and stares at the wall?) Ain't it 
kind of him.'' 

Brit. Very. It's the sort of kindness that I 
wouldn't presume upon, on any account. 

Airs. B. No, of course not. Then there's the 
pony — he fetched eight pound two ; and that ain't 
bad — is it ? 

Brit. It's very good. 

Mrs. B. (c.) I'm glad you're pleased ! I thought 
you would be ; and I think that's all, and so no more 
at present from yours and cetrer, C. Britain. Ha, ha, 
ha ! There ! Take all the papers, and lock 'em up. 
O, wait a minute. Here's a printed bill to stick on 
the wall. Wet from the printer's. How nice it 
smells ! 

B^rit. (c.) {Looking over tJie bill) What's this? 

Mrs. B. I don't know. I haven't read a word 
of it. 

Brit. {Reading.) '' To be sold by auction, un- 
less previously disposed of by private contract." 

M?'s. B. They always put tliat. 

Brit. Yes, but they don't always put this. Look 
here ; •' Mansion, &c. — offices, &c. — shrubberies, &c. 

— ring fence, &c. — Messrs. Snitchey and Craggs, &c. 

— ornamental portion of the unencumbered freehold 



150 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

property of Michael Warden, Esquire, intending to 
continue to reside abroad ! " 

jMrs. B. Intending to continue to reside abroad ! 

Brit. Here it is. Look ! 

Airs. B. {Shaking her head sorrowfully., and 
fatting her elbotvs.) And it was only this very day 
tliat I hearj it whispered at the old house, that better 
and jDlainer news had been lialf promised of her soon ! 
Dear — dear — dear! There'll be heavy hearts, Ben, 
3^onder. 

Brit. {Sighing.) Ah! it's a sad thing, and I 
can't make it out. I left off trying, long ago. 

Mrs. B. {Bousing herself.) Well ! I must go 
and look after the children. 

[_Bxit L., Britain fastens the bill agaiiist 
the wall^ R. 

Brit. {Putting away the papers which his %vife 
brought home.) What a hand she is for business, to 
be sure ! 

Airs. B. {Re-entering.) The two boys are play- 
ing in the coach-house, and little Clem is sleeping like 
a picture, so well have tea. ( They sit at table., Brit- 
ain, R. ; Mrs. Britain, i..) It's the first time I've 
sat down quietly to-day, I declare. {Hands Britain 
his tea.) How that bill {cuts some bread) does set 
me thinking of old times ! 

Brit. {Drinking from his saucer.) Ah! 

Mrs. B. That same Mr. Michael Warden lost me 
my old place. 

Brit. And got you your husband. 

Airs. B. Well ! So he did, and many thanks to him. 

Brit. Man's the creature of habit. {Surveys her 



THE BATTLE OF LIFE. I5I 

over hh saiicer.) I had somehow got used to 3^011, Clem, 
and I found I shouldn't be able to get on without you. 
So we went and got made man and wife. Ha, ha ! 
We ! Who'd have thought it ! 

Airs. B. Who, indeed ! It was very good of you, 
Ben. 

Brit. No, no, no. Nothing worth mentioning. 

Airs. B. O, yes it was, Ben. I'm sure I think so, 
and am very much obliged to you. Ah ! {looking 
again at the bill)^ when she was known to be gone, 
and out of reach, dear girl, I couldn't help teUing — 
for her sake quite as much as theirs — what I knew 
— could I ? 

Brit. You told it, any how. 

Airs. B. And Dr. Jeddler {picts down her teacup., 
and looks' thoughtfully at the bill)^ in his grief and 
passion, turned me out of house and home! I never 
have been so glad of anything in all my life, as that 
I didn't say an angry word to him, and hadn't an 
angry feeling towards him, even then ; for he repented 
that truly, afterwards. How often he has sat in 
this room, and told me over and over again he was 
sorry for it! — the last time, only yesterday, when 
you were out. How often he has sat in this room, 
and talked to me, hour after hour, about one thing and 
another, in which he made believe to be interested ! — 
but only for the sake of the days that are gone b}^ 
and because he knows she used to like me, Ben ! 

Brit. Wliy, how^ did you ever come to catch a 
glimpse of that, Clem? 

Mrs. B. I don't know, I'm sure, {Blows her 
tea.) Bless you, I couldn't tell you, if you w\as to ofter 
me a reward of a hundred pound. 



1^2 DIALOGUES FROM DICKElSrS. 

[ Whilst she is speaking a st}'angei' (Mi- 
chael Warden), cloaked a?id booted^ 
stands i?i the open doorway^ c, listen- 
ing. Mr. <7??<:/Mrs. Britain rise hastily. 
Brit, {Sa kiting.) Will you please to walk up 
stairs, sir? There's a very nice room up stairs, sir. 

Warden. (^Looking at Mrs. Britain.) Thank 
you. May I come in here? 

Mrs. B. O, surely, if you like, sir. What would 
you please to want, sir? [Warden reads the hill. 

Mr. B. Excellent property that, sir. 
War. {^Turning to Mrs. Britain.) You were 
asking me — 

Mrs. B. What you would please to take, sir? 
W^ar. ' {Sitti72g at table near the window.^ r.) If 
you will let me have a draught of ale, and will let me 
have it here, without being any interruption to your 
meal, I shall be much obliged to you. 

\^Sits down and looks out of the window. 

Mrs. Britain brings a pitcher of ale and 

a glass. 

War. {^Filling his glass and holding it tip.) To 

the House, ma'am! {D7'inks.) It's a new house — 

is it not? 

Brit. Not particularly new, sir. 
Mrs. B. Between five and six years old. 
War. I think I heard you mention Dr. Jeddler's 
name, as I came in. That bill reminds me of him ; 
for I happen to know something of that story, by hear- 
say, and through certain connections of mine. Is the 
old man living? • 

Mrs. B. Yes, he's living, sir. 
War. Much chanofed ? 



THE BATTLE OF LIFE. 1 53 

Mi's. B. Since when, sir? 

War. Since his daughter — went away. 

Mi'S. B. Yes ! he's greatly changed since then. 
He's gray and old, and hasn't the same way with him 
at all ; but I think he's happy now. He has taken on 
with his sister since then, and goes to see her very 
often. That did him good, directly. At first, he was 
sadly broken down ; and it was enough to make one's 
heart bleed, to see him wandering about, railing at the 
world ; but a great change for the better came over 
him after a year or two, and then he began to like to 
talk about his lost daughter, and to praise her, ay, and 
the world too ! and was never tired of saying, with 
the tears in his poor eyes, how beautiful and good she 
was. He had forgiven her, then. That was about the 
same time as Miss Grace's marriage. Britain, you re- 
member .? 

Brit. I remember very well. 

War. The sister is married, then. (^A pause.) 
To whom? 

Mrs. B. {Excitedly.) Y)\(\ you never hear.? 

War. {Billing- his giass again.) I should like to 
hear. 

Mrs. B. Ah ! It would be a long story, if it was 
properly told. {Bests her chin on her hand., and 
shakes her head thoughtfully.) It would be a long 
story, I am sure. 

War. But told as a short one. 

Mrs. B. {Talking half to herself.) Told as a 
short one, what would there be to tell ? That they 
grieved together, and remembered her together, like 
a person dead ; that they were so tender of her, never 



154 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

would reproach 'her, called her back to one another 
as she used to be, and found excuses for her ! Every 
one knows that. I'm sure / do. No one better. 
( Wipes her eyes with her hand.) 

War. And so — 

Mrs. B. And so they at last were married. They 
were married on her birthday — it comes round again 
to-morrow — very quiet, very humble like, but very 
happy. Mr. Alfred said, one night when they were 
walking in the orchard, '" Grace, shall our wedding 
day be Marion's birthday? " And it was. 

War, And they have lived happily together? 

Mrs. B. Ay. No two people ever more so. They 
have had no sorrow but this. 

[Warden looks out of the window. Mrs. 
Britain makes signs to Mr. Britain, 
points to the bill., and forms two words 
with her lips. Mr. Britain stares at her.^ 
then at the bill., and then at Warden. 

Brit. (Aside.) Eh ! what, milk and water? {A/ore 
signs from Mrs. Britain.) Monthly warning ! Eh ! 
what does she say? (More signs.) Mice and wal- 
nuts ? (Mks. Britain gives it up., and draws her 
chair nearer to Warden.) 

War. And what is the after history of the young 
lady who went away ? They know it, I suppose ? 

Mrs. B. {Shaking her head.) I've heard that 
Dr. Jeddler is thought to know more of it than he 
tells. Miss Grace has had letters from lier sister, say- 
ing that she was well and happy, and made much hap- 
pier by her being married to Mr. Alfred ; and has 
written letters back. But there's a mystery about her 



THE BATTLE OF LIFE. I55 

life and fortunes, altogether, which nothing has cleared 
lip to this hour, and which — {She stops.) 
Wai'. And which — 

Airs. B, {^Excitedly.) Which only one other, per- 
son, I believe, could explain. 

War. Who may that be ? 

Mrs, B. ( With a shriek.) Mr. Michael Warden ! 
(^Rising.) You remember me, sir? i^Treiizbling with 
emotion.) I saw just now you did ! You remember 
me, that night in the garden. I was with her ! 

War. Yes. You were. 

Mrs. B. Yes, sir ! Yes, to be sure. This is my 
husband, if you please. Ben, my dear Ben, run to 
Miss Grace — run to Mr. Alfred — run somewhere, 
Ben ! Bring somebody here, directly ! 

War. {^Interposi7ig between Britain a7id the 
door.) Stay! What would you do .'* 

Mrs. B. Let them know that you are here, sir! 
Let them know that they may hear of her, from your 
own lips; let them know that she is not quite lost to 
them, but that she will come home again yet, to bless 
her father and her loving sister — even her old servant, 
even me — with a sight of her sweet face. Run, Ben, 
run ! {Pushes hifn towards the door., c. Warden 
checks him. Mrs. Britain ru7is past Britain 
a?zd seizes Warden's cloak.) Or, perhaps she's 
here now ; perhaps she's close by. I think from 
your manner she is. Let me see her, sir, if you 
please. I waited on her when she was a little child. I 
saw her grow up to be the pride of all tliis place. I 
knew her when she w^as Mr. Alfred's promised wife. I 
tried to warn her when you tempted her a>vay. I know 



156 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

what her old home was when she was hkc the soul of it, 
and how it changed when she was gone and lost. Let 
me speak to her, if you please. (yHe looks at her with- 
out speaking. A pause.) 1 don't think she can know 
how truly they forgive her; how they love her; wdial 
joy it would be to them to see her once more. She 
may be timorous of going home. Perhaps if she sees 
me it may give her new heart. Only tell me truly, 
Mr. Warden, is she with you ^ 

War. (^Shaking- his head.) She is not. 
J\'l7's. B. Then she is dedd ! Poor Marion is dead ! 
\^She sits dowii^i hides her face 07z the table., 
aiid zveeps. Britain tries to console 
her. Eizter Mr. Snitchey, c. d., hasti- 
ly., ajzd out of breath. 
Snit. {Tahi7zg Warden aside.) Good Heaven, 
Mr. Warden ! what wind has blown — {stops to 
take breath) — you here } 

War. An ill wind, I am afraid. If you could have 
heard what has just passed — how I have been be- 
sought and entreated to perform impossibilities — what 
confusion and affliction I carry with me ! 

Snit. I can guess it all. But why did you ever 
come here, my good sir ? 

War. Come ! How should I know who kept the 
bouse? When I sent my servant on to you, I strolled 
in here because the place was new to me, and I had a 
natural curiosity in everything new and old in these 
old scenes ; and it was outside the town I w^anted to 
communicate with you first, before appearing there. 
I wanted to know what people would say to me. I 
see by your manner that you can tell me. If it were 



THE BATTLE OF LIFE. I57 

not for your confounded caution, I should have been 
possessed of everything long ago. 

Snit. Our caution I speaking for Self and Craggs 
— deceased. ( Glances at his hat-band and shakes his 
head.) How can you reasonably blame us, Mr. War- 
den? It was understood betwen us that the subject 
was never to be renewed, and that it wasn't a subject 
on which grave and sober men like us (I made a note 
of your observations at the time) could interfere. Our 
caution, too ! When Mr. Craggs, sir, went down to 
his respected grave in the full belief — 

rlVar. I had given a solemn promise of silence 
until I should return, whenever that might be, and I 
have kept it. 

Snit. Well, sir, and I repeat it, we were bound 
to silence too. We were bound to silence in our 
duty towards ourselves, and in our duty towards a 
variety of clients, you among them, who were as close 
as wax. It was not our place to make inquiries of you 
on such a delicate subject. I had my suspicions, sir ; 
but it is not six months since I have known the truth, 
and been assured tiiat you lost her. 

War. By whom ? 

Snit. By Dr. Jeddler himself, sir, who at last re- 
posed that confidence in me voluntarily. He, and 
only he, has known the whole truth, years and years. 

War. And you know it? 

Snit. I do, sir ! and I have also reason to know 
that it will be broken to her sister to-morrow evening. 
They have given her that promise. In the meantime, 
perhaps you'll give me the honor of your company at 
my iiouse ; being unexpected at your own. But, not 



158 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

to run the chance of any more such difficulties as you 
have had here, in case you should be recognized — 
though you're a good deal changed ; I think I might 
have passed you myself, Mr. Warden — we had better 
dine here, and v^alk on in the evening. It's a very good 
place to dine at, Mr. Warden ; your own property, 
by-the-by. Self and Craggs (deceased) took a chop 
here sometimes, and had it very comfortably served. 
Mr. Craggs, sir, was struck off the roll of life too 
soon. 

War, {^Pressing his hand to his forehead.^ Heav- 
en forgive me for not condoling with you, but I'm like 
a man in a dream at present. I seem to want my wits. 
Mr. Craggs — yes — I am very sorry we have lost Mr. 
Craggs. ( Watches Mr. and Mrs. Britain.) 

Snit. Mr. Craggs, sir, didn't find life, I regret to 
say, as easy to have and to hold as his theory made it 
out, or he would have been among us now. It's a 
great loss to me. He was my right arm, my right leg, 
my right ear, my right eye, was Mr. Craggs. I am 
paralytic without him. He bequeathed his share of 
the business to Mrs. Craggs, her executors, administra- 
tors, and assigns. His name remains in the Firm to 
this hour. I try, in a childish sort of w^ay, to make 
believe, sometimes, that he's alive. You may observe 
that I speak for Self and Craggs — deceased, sir — de- 
ceased. ( Waving his hajidkerchief.) 

[Warden whispei^s to Snitchey. 

Snit. {Shaking his head.) Ah, poor thing ! Yes. 
She was always very faithful to Marion. She was al- 
ways very fond of her. Pretty Marion ! Poor Mar- 
ion ! ( Coming down c, to Mrs. Britain.) Cheer 



THE BATTLE OF LIFE. I59 

up, Mistress — you a7'e married now, you know. 
Clemency. (Mrs. Britain sighs aiid shakes her 
head.) Well, well ! Wait till to-morrow. 

Mrs. B. {Sobbing.) To-morrow can't bring back 
the dead to life. Mister. 

S?iit. No. It can't do that, or it would bring back 
Mr. Craggs, deceased. But it may bring some sooth- 
ing circumstances ; it may bring some comfort. Wait 
till to-morrow ! 

{^Shakes her by the hand^ and goes towards 
c. D. Curtain.* 



* Mrs. Britain, at table, l. c; Mr. Britain standing 
near her; Warden, near c. d. Snitchey, c. d., holding the 
handle of the half-opened door, hat in hand, looking towards 
Mrs. Britain. 



l6o DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 



HOME AGAIN. 

Scene : Dr. Jeddler's Orchard. Time^ 7iear sunset. 
Alfred a7zd Grace seated together on the gar- 
deji bench^ L. ; their little daughter flaying 7iear 
the?}i. 

Alfred. The time has flown, dear Grace, since 
then ; and yet it seems a long while ago. We count 
by changes and events within us, not by years. 

Grace. Yet we have years to count by, too, since 
Marion was with us. vSix times, dear husband, count- 
ing to-night as one, we have sat here on her birthday, 
and spoken together of that happy return, so eagerly 
expected and so long deferred. Ah, when will it be ! 
when will it be ! 

Alf. But Marion told you, in that farewell letter 
which she left for you upon your table, love, and 
which you read so often, that years must pass away 
before it could be. Did she not? 

Grace. Yes. 

Alf. That through those intervening years, how- 
ever happy she might be, she would look forward to 
the time when you would meet again, and all would 
be made clear. The letter runs so, does it not, my 
dear .? 

Grace. Yes, Alfred. 

Alf. And every other letter she has written since? 

Grace. Except the last — some months ago — in 
which she spoke of you, and what you then knew, and 
what I was to learn to-nieht. 



THE BATTLE OF LIFE. l6l 

Alf. (^LooJilng at the sun.) The appointed time 
was sunset. 

Grace. Alfred, there was something in that letter 
— that old letter, which you say I read so often — that 
I have never told you. But to-night, dear husband, 
with that sunset drawing near, and all our life seeming 
to soften and become hushed with the departing day, I 
cannot keep it secret. 

Alf. What is it, love? 

Grace. When Marion went away, she wrote me, 
here, that you had once left her a sacred trust to me, 
and that now she left you, Alfred, such a trust in my 
hands ; praying and beseeching me not to reject the 
affection she believed you would transfer to me when 
the new wound was healed, but to encourage and 
return it. 

Alf. {^Taki7ig her ht his arms.) — And make 
me a proud, and happy man again, Grace! Did she 
say so? 

Grace. She meant, to make myself so blessed and 
honored in your love. 

Alf Hear me, my dear! (^She raises her head.) 
No. Hear me so ! {Lays her head ag-ai??. on his 
shoulder.) I know why I have never heard this pas- 
sage in the letter until now. I know why no trace of 
it ever showed itself in any word or look of yours at 
that time. I know why Grace, although so true a 
friend to me, was hard to win to be my wife ; and, 
knowing it, I know the priceless value of the heart I 
gird within my arms, and thank God for the rich pos- 
session. Look how golden and red the sun is ! 

Grace. (^Raisiitg her head.) Alfred, the sun is 
II 



1 62 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

going down. You have not forgotten what I am to 
know before it sets? 

Alf. You are to know the truth of Marion's his- 
tory, my love. 

Grace. {l77iplorh2gly.) All the truth. . Nothing 
veiled from me any more. That was the promise. 
Was it not? 

Alf. It was. 

Grace. Before the sun went down on Marion's 
birthday. And you see it, Alfred? It is sinking 
fast. 

Alf. The truth is not reserved so long for me to 
tell, dear Grace. It is to come from other lips. 

Grace. From other lips ? 

Alf. Yes. I know your constant heart ; I know 
how brave you are ; I know that to you a word of 
preparation is enough. You have said, truly, that the 
time is come. It is. Tell me that you have present 
fortitude to bear a trial — a surprise — a shock ; and 
the messenger is waiting at the gate. 

Grace. What messenger, and what intelligence 
does he bring? 

Alf. I am pledged to say no more. Do you think 
you understand me ? 

Grace. I am afraid to think. Wait, Alfred ! — 
one moment ! 

Alf Courage, my wife ! When you have firmness 
to receive the messenger, the messenger is waiting at 
the gate. The sun is setting on Marion's birthday. 
Courage, courage, Grace ! 

Grace. {^Looking at him.) I am ready. 

\_They rise. Alfred goes into the house^ 



THE BATTLE OF LIFE. 1 63 

R., leading the cJiild; Grace stands 

looking afte7' them. Dr. Jeddler, clasp- 

ingMAKiON in his arms, stands suddenly 

at the gate, c. Gracp: tui-ns; Marion 

breaks away from her father, runs to 

Grace, and falls on her neck. 

Grace. {^Throwing her arms about Marion.) 

Oh, Marion, Marion ! Oh, my sister I Oh, my heart's 

dear love ! Oh, joy and happiness unutterable, so to 

meet again ! 

Mar. {After a pause.) When this was my dear 
home, Grace, as it will be now again — 

Grace. Stay, my sweet love ! A moment ! O 
Marion, to hear you speak again ! 

Mar. When this was my dear home, Grace, as it 
will be now again, I loved him most devotedly. I 
would have died for him, though I was so young. I 
never slighted his affection in my secret breast, for one 
brief instant. Although it is so long ago, and past 
and gone, and everything is wholly changed, I could 
not bear to think that you, who loved so well, should 
think I did not truly love him once. I never loved 
him better, Grace, than when he left this very scene, 
upon this very day. I never loved him better, dear 
one, than I did that night when / left here. But 
he had gained, unconsciously, another heart, before I 
knew that I had one to give him. That heart — 
yours, my sister ! — was so yielded up, in all its other 
tenderness, to me — was so devoted and so noble — 
that it plucked its love away, and kept its secret from 
all eyes but mine, and was content to sacrifice itself to 
me. But 1 knew something of its deptlis. I knew 



164 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

the struggle it had made. I knew its high, inestima- 
ble worth to him, and his appreciation of it, let him 
love me as he would. I knew the debt I owed it. I 
had its great example every day before me. What 
you had done for me I knew that I could do, Grace, 
if I would, for you. And He who knows our hearts, 
my dearest, at this moment, and who knows there is 
no drop of bitterness or grief — of anything but un- 
mixed happiness — in mine, enabled me to make the 
resolution that I never would be Alfred's wife. That 
he should be my brother and j^our husband, if the 
course I took could bring that happy end to pass ; but 
that I never would (Grace, I then loved him dearly, 
dearly !) be his wife ! 

Gj'ace. O Marion, O Marion ! 

Mar, I had tried to seem indifferent to him ; but 
that was hard, and you were always his true advocate. 
I had tried to tell you of my resolution, but you would 
never hear me ; you would never understand me. 
The time was drawing near for his return. I felt that 
I must act, before the daily intercourse between us was 
renewed. I knew that one great pang, imdergone at 
that time, would save a lengthened agony to all of us. 
I knew that, if I went away then, that end must follow 
which has followed, and which has made us both so 
happy, Grace ! I wrote to good Aunt Martha for a 
refuge in her house — I did not then tell her all, but 
something of my story — and she freely promised it. 
While I was contesting that step with myself, and w^ith 
my love of you, and home, Mr. Warden, brought here 
by an accident, became, for some time, our com- 
panion. 



THE BATTLE OF LIFE. 1 65 

Grace. I have sometimes feared, of late years, that 
this might have been. You never loved him, and you 
married him in your self-sacrifice to me ! 

Afar. He was then on the eve of going secretly 
away for a long time. He wrote to me, after leaving 
here, told me what his condition and prospects really 
were ; and offered me his hand. He told me he had 
seen I was not happy in the prospect of Alfred's re- 
turn. I believe he thought my heart had no part in 
that contract; perhaps thought I might have loved 
him once, and did not then ; perhaps thought that 
when I tried to seem indifferent, I tried to hide indif- 
ference — I cannot tell. But I wished that you should 
feel me wholly lost to Alfred — hopeless to him — dead. 
Do you understand me, love? I saw Mr. Warden, 
and confided in his honor ; charged him with my 
secret, on the eve of his and my departure. He kept 
it. Do you understand me, dear? (Grace looks con- 
fusedly upon her. Dr. Jeddler, Aunt Martha, 
a;2^ Alfred appear at gate^ c, a7id stand there^u7i- 
observed by Grace and Marion.) O Grace, dear 
Grace ! if you were not a happy wife and mothei* — 
if I had no little namesake here — if Alfred, my kind 
brother, were not your own fond husband — from 
whence could I derive the ecstasy I feel to-night ! But 
as I left here, so I have returned. My heart has 
known no other love ; my hand has never been be- 
stowed apai't from it. I am still your maiden sister, 
unmarried, unbetrothed ; your own old loving Marion, 
in whose affection you exist alone and have no part- 
ner, Grace ! 

[Grace ejnbraces her^ weeping: 



1 66 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

Aunt Mar. ( Coming down^ and embracbtg Grace 
and Marion.) This is a weary day for me, for I lose 
my dear companion in making you all happy ; and 
what can you give me in return for my Marion? 

Dr. y. ( Coming down, c.) A converted brother. 

Attnt Mar. That's something, to be sure, in such 
a farce as — 

Dr. y. {Penitently.) No, pray don't. 

Aunt Mar. Well, I won't ; but I consider myself 
ill-used. I don't know what's to become of me with- 
out my Marion, after we have lived together half a 
dozen years. 

Dr. y. You must come and live here, I suppose. 
We shan't quarrel now, Martha. 

Alf. Or you must get married, aunt. 

Aunt Mar. Indeed, I think it might be a good 
speculation if I were to set my cap at Michael War- 
den, who, I hear, is come home much the better for 
his absence, in all respects. But as I knew him when 
he was a boy, and I was not a very young woman 
then, perhaps he mightn't respond. So I'll make up 
mymind to go and live with Marion when she mar- 
ries, and until then (it will not be very long, I dare 
say) to live alone. What do you say, brother? 

Dr. y. I've a great mind to say it's a ridiculous 
world altogether, and there's nothing serious in it. 

Azmt Mar. You might take twenty affidavits of it, 
if you chose, Anthony ; but nobody would believe 
you with such eyes as those. 

Dr. y. {E7nbracing his daughters.) It's a world 
full of hearts, and a serious world, with all its folly — 
even with mine, which was enough to have swamped 



THE BATTLE OF LIFE. 167 

the whole globe ; and it is a world on which the sun 
never rises, but it looks upon a thousand bloodless bat- 
tles that are some set-off against the miseries and 
wickedness of battle-helds ; and it is a world we need 
be careful how we libel, Heaven forgive us, for it 
is a world of sacred mysteries, and its Creator only 
know^s wdiat lies beneath the surface of His lightest 
image ! 

Suit. {^Lookiitg in at the gate.) I beg your par- 
don. Doctor, but have I liberty to come in? {Comes 
down., and kisses Marion's hand.) If Mr. Craggs 
had been alive, my dear Miss Marion, he would have 
had great interest in this occasion. It might have 
suggested to himi, Mr. Alfred, that our life is not too 
easy, perhaps ; that, taken altogether, it will bear any 
little smoothing we can give it ; but Mr. Craggs was a 
man who could endure to be convinced, sir. He was 
always open to conviction. If he were open to con- 
viction now, I — this is weakness. Mrs. Snitchey, 
my dear {calling- off)., you are among old friends. 

[Mrs. Snitchey enters from house.^ r., 
crosses and congratulates the family; 
she then takes Mr. Snitchey aside. 

Airs. Snit. One moment, Mr. Snitchey. It is not 
in my nature to rake up the ashes of the departed. 

Snit. No, my dear. 

Mrs. Snit. Mr. Craggs is — 

Snit. Yes, my dear, he is deceased. 

Mrs. Snit. But I ask you if you recollect that even- 
ing of the ball? I only ask you that. If you do, 
and if your memory has not entirely failed you, Mr. 
Snitchey, and if you are not absolutely in your dotage, 



1 68 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

I ask you to connect this time with that — to remember 
how I begged and prayed you, on my knees — 
Sitit. Upon your knees, my dear ? 
Mrs. Snit. Yes, and you know it — to beware of 
that man — to observe his eye, — and now tell me 
whether I was right, and whether at that moment he 
knew secrets which he didn't choose to tell. 

Snit. {In a low toite.') Mrs. Snitchey — Madam. 
Did you ever observe anything in 77iy eye? 

Mrs. Snit. {Sharply.) No ! Don't flatter your- 
self! 

Sitit. {Twitchi7ig her sleeve.) Because, ma'am, 
that night, it happens that we both knew secrets which 
we didn't choose to tell, and both knew just the same 
professionally. And so the less you say about such 
things the better, Mrs. Snitchey ; and take this as a 
warning to have wiser and more cliaritable eyes an- 
other time. Miss Marion, I brought a friend of yours, 
along with me. ( Callijtg off.) Here ! Mistress ! 
{Enter Mrs. Britain, r., with her apron to her 
eyes^ and escorted by Mr. Britain. Marion starts 
towards her^ but is checked by Mr. Snitchey, who 
places himself between them.) Now, Mistress, what's 
the matter Wiih you? 
Mrs. B. The matter? 

\_Looks up., and sees Marion. She gives a 
scream.^ and Mr. Britain a roar. Mrs. 
Britain runs to Marion and embraces 
her., then to Mr. Snitchey and embraces 
him., lastly to Mr. Britain ; and then 
covers her face with her apron., and goes 
into hysterics. Mr. Warden appears., 



THE BATTLE OF LIFE. 1 69 

and stands with dozvncast eyes at the 
gate^ c. Aunt Martha sees hlm^ and 
points him out to Marion. The two 
approach and coitverse with him. 

Snit. (^Drawing a documejit fro?n his pocket.^ 
Mr. Britain, I congratulate you. You are now the 
whole and sole proprietor of that freehold tenement, at 
present occupied and held by yourself as a licensed 
tavern, or house of public entertainment, and com- 
monly called or known by the sign of the Nutmeg 
Grater. Your wife lost one house through my client, 
Mr. Michael Warden, and now gains another. {^Haiids 
him the paper. ^ I shall have the pleasure of canvass- 
ing yoii for the county, one of these fine mornings. 

Brit. Would it make any difierence in the vote if 
the sign was altered, sir.? 

Snit. Not in the least. 

Brit. {Rctui-ning the paper. ^ Then just clap 
in the words, " a'-^d Thimble," will you be so good? 
and I'll have the two mottoes painted up in the parlor, 
instead of my wife's portrait. 

War. ( Cofning dow7t.^ And let me claim the 
benefit of those inscriptions. Mn Heathfield and Dr. 
Jeddler, I might have deeply wronged you both. That 
I did not, is no virtue of my own. I will not say 
that I am six years wiser than I was, or better. But 
I have known, at any rate, that term of self-reproach. 
I can urge no reason v/hy you should deal gently with 
me. I abused the hospitality of this house, and learnt 
my own demerits, with" a shame I never have forgot- 
ten, yet with some profit, too, I would fain hope, from 
one {gla7zcing at Marion) to whom I made my 



170 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

humble supplication for forgiveness, when I knew 
her merit and my deep unworthiness. In a few days 
I shall quit this place forever. I entreat your pardon. 
Do as you would be done by ! Forget and forgive ! 







War. 













Mrs, S. 


• 


• 


Dr, y. 


Mr, S, • 






# Marion, 


Mrs, B, • 






Grace, 


Mr. B. • 






e Alfred. 




Curtain. 





THE TWO CLUBS 



PART I. ''MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK.' 
" II. "MR. WELLER'S WATCH." 



THE TWO CLUBS. 



Master Humphrey's Clock. 

Scene : Room in Master Humphrey's House. Ta- 
ble and two chairs^ c. Master Humphrey alone, 
reading, c. Mr. Pickwick enters, l., hat in hand, 
and crosses to Master Humphrey, who rises to 
meet him. 

Mr. Pickwick. My dear sir, pray be seated. Pray 
sit down. Now, do not stand on my account. I must 
insist upon it, really. (^Presses him into his seat, and 
shakes him heartily by the hand.) 

Master Hu7Tiphrey. Take a seat, sir. (Mr. Pick- 
wick sits near hifji.) 

Mr. P. You knew me directly. What a pleasure 
it is to think that you knew me directly ! 

Master H. I have read your adventures, sir, very 
often, and your features are quite familiar to me from 
the published portraits. 

Mr. P. But don't you wonder how I found you 
out.? 

Master H. I shall never wonder, and, with your 
good leave, never know. It is enough for me that you 
give me this gratification. I have not the least desire 
that you should tell me by what means I have ob- 
tained it. 

Mr. P. (^Shaking him again by the hand.) You 



1^4 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

are very kind. You are so exactly what I expected ; 
but for what particular purpose do you think that I 
have sought you, my dear sir.? Now what do you 
think I have come for.? (Master H. shakes his 
head. Mr. Pickwick lays his finger on Master 
H.'s coat sleeve., and throwing back his head., looks at 
him.) What should you say if I confessed that, after 
reading your account of yourself and your little socie- 
ty, I had come here a humble candidate for one of 
the empty chairs in that society? 

Master H, I should say that I know of only one 
circumstance which could still further endear that little 
society to me, and that would be the associating with 
it my old friend — for you must let me call you so — 
my old friend, Mr. Pickwick. 

[Mr. Pickwick seizes him by both hands., 
and shakes them heartily; drops them 
a7id pats him lightly on the back., then 
checks himself, 

Mr. P. My dear sir, I hope I have not hurt you. 

Master H. Not in the least, Mr. Pickwick. But 
you have not told me anything about Sam Weller. 

Mr. P, Oh ! Sam is the same as ever. The same 
true, faithful fellow that he ever was. What should I 
tell you about Sam, my dear sir, except that he is more 
indispensable to my happiness and comfort every day 
of my life } 

Master H. And Mr. Weller, senior? 

Mr. P. Old Mr. Weller is in no respect more al- 
tered than Sam, unless it be that he is a little more 
opinionated than he was formerly, and perhaps a little 
more talkative. He spends a good deal of his time 



THE TWO CLUBS. 



175 



now in our neighborhood, and has so far constituted 
himself a part of m}' body-guard, that when I ask per- 
mission for Sam to have a seat in your kitchen on 
clock niglits (supposing your friends think me worthy 
to fill one of the chairs), I am afraid I must often 
include Mr. Weller, too. In fact, I left them both 
below when I came in, and will call them if you 
would like to see them. ' 

Master H. Nothing could give me greater pleasure. 
\_Rxit Mr. Pickwick, l., and returns with 
Mr. Weller and Sam. Mr. W. has 
his hat under his arm^ and repeat- 
edly salutes Master H., by touching 
his forehead with the fore finger of his 
right hand. 
Master H. I am very glad to see you in such good 
health, Mr. Weller. 

Mr. Weller. (l. c.) Why, thank'ee, sir, the axle 
ain't broke yet. We keeps up a steady pace — not too 
sewere, but vith a moderate degree o' friction — and 
the consekens is, that ve're still a runnin', and comes 
in to the time reg'lar. My son Samivel, sir, as you 
may have read on in history. (Sam salutes.) Sami- 
vel Veller, sir, has con-ferred upon me the ancient title 
o' grandfather wich had long laid dormouse, and was 
s'posed to be nearly hex-tinct in our family. Sammy, 
relate a anecdote o' vun o' them boys — that 'ere little 
anecdote about young Tony sayin' as he vould smoke 
a pipe unbeknown to his mother. 

Sam. (l.) Be quiet, can't you? I never see such 
a old magpie — never. 

Air. W. That 'ere Tony is the blessedest boy, — 



176 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

the blessedest boy as ever / see in my days !. Of all 
the charmin'est infants as ever 1 heerd tell on, includin' 
them as was kivered over by the robin redbreasts arter 
they'd committed sooicide w^ith blackberries, there 
never wos any like that 'ere little Tony. He's always 
a playin' vith a quart pot, that boy is ! To see him 
a-settin' down on the door-step pretending to drink out 
of it, and fetching a long breath artervards, and smokin' 
a bit of firewood, and sayin', '' Now I'm grandfather ! " 
to see him a doin' that, at two year old, is better than 
any play as wos ever wrote. " Now I'm grandfather." 
{Laughs.) He wouldn't take a pint pot if you wos to 
make him a present on it ; but he gets his quart, and 
then he says, " Now I'm grandfather ! " 

[Mr. W. laughs till he coughs. Sam seizes 
his shawl just under his chin., and shakes 
him vigorously., at the same time thump- 
ing him on the back. Mr. W. recov- 
ers in a state of great exhaustion. 
Mr. P. (r. c.) He'll do now, Sam. 
Sa772. (^Looking reproachfully at Mr. Weller.) 
He'll do., sir. Yes he will do, one o' these days. He'll 
do for his-self, and then he'll wish he hadn't. Did 
anybody ever see sich a inconsiderate old file — laugh- 
ing into conwuLsions afore company, and stamping on 
the flooi' as if he'd brought his own carpet vith him, 
and wos under a wager to punch the pattern out in a 
given time ! He'll begin again in a minute. (Mr. 
W. continues to laugh coizvulsivcly., but silently.) 
There, — he's a goin' ofi' — I said he would. 

Mr. W. {Recovering himself^ and zviping his 
eyes with his coat sleeve.) Afore ve vithdraws, there 



THE TWO CLUBS. 1 77 

is a pint, sir, respecting vich Sammy has a question 
to ask. Vile that question is a perwadin' this here 
conwersation, p'r'aps the gen'l'm'n vill permit me to 
retire. {^Titi-ns to go oitt.~) 

Sain. {^Seizing him by the coat tail.^ Wot are 
you goin' away for? 

j\fr. IV. 1 never see such a ondootiful boy as you, 
Samivel. Didn't you make a solemn promise, amount- 
in' almost to a speeches o' wow^ that you'd put that 
'ere question on my account? 

Saf?z. Well, I'm agreeable to do it ; but not if you 
go cuttin' away like that. The fact is, sir {to Master 
Humphrey), that he wants to know somethin' re- 
spectin' that 'ere lady as is housekeeper here. 

Master H. Ay, what is that ? 

Sam. ( Grijznlng.) Vy, sir, he wishes to know 
vether she — 

j\fr. W. In short, vether that 'ere old creetur is, or 
is not, a widder. (Mr. P. a?id Mr. H. laugh heart- 
ily) 

Mr. H. My housekeeper, Mr. Weller, is a spinster. 

Saiti. There, now you're satisfied. You hear she's 
a spinster. 

Mr. W. (^Scornfully.) Awot> 

Sam. A spinster. 

Mr. W. (^Eyeing his son for a moment.) Never 
mind vether she makes jokes or not, that's no matter. 
Wot I say is, is that 'ere female a widder, or is she 
not? 

Sam. Wot do )^ou mean by her makin^ jokes? 

Mr. \V. ( Gravely.) Never you mind, Samivel. 
Puns may be v^'ery good things, or they may be wery 

12 



1 78 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

bad uns, and a female may be none the better, or she 
may be none the vurse for makin' of 'em ; that's got 
nothin' to do vith vidders. 

Sam. (^Looking roztnd.) Wy, now, would any- 
body believe as a man at his time o' life could be a 
running his head agin spinsters and punsters being the 
same thing? 

Mr. W. There ain't a straw's difference between 
'em. Your father didn't drive a coach for so many 
years, not to be ekal to his own langvidge, as far as 
ihat goes, Sammy. 

Master H. I assure you, Mr. VVeller, that the lady 
in question has never been married. 

Mr. W. I am wery glad to hear it, sir. I wouldn't 
ha' asked the question, sir, but I wos greatly terrified 
by a widder not long ago, and my natural timidity's in- 
creased in consekens. It wos on the rail (^emphatical- 
ly) ; I wos a-goin' down to Birmingham by the rail, and 
I wos locked up in a close carriage vith a living widder. 
Alone we wos ; the widder and me wos alone ; and I 
believe it wos only because we wos alone, and there 
wos no clergyman in the conwayance, that that 'ere 
widder didn't marry me afore ve reached the half-way 
station. Ven I think how she began a-screaming, as 
we wos a-agoin' under them tunnels in the dark — how 
she kept on a faintin' and catchin' hold o' me — and 
how I tried to bust open the door as wos tight-locked, 
and perwented all escape. Ah ! It wos a awful thing 
— most awful. 

\_Much overcome^ wipes his forehead sev- 
eral timeS: with his sleeve. 

Master H. Dp yov^ approve qf railway communi- 
cation, Mr. Weller? 



THE TWO CI.UBS. 1^9 

Mr, W. ( Wipntg Jiis brow before replying.^ 
I consider that the rail is unconstitootional and an in- 
waser o' priwileges. And as to the Jiovlox and dignity 
o* travellin', vere can that be vithout a coachman ? and 
wot's the rail to sich coachmen and guards as is some- 
times forced to go by it, but a outrage and a insult? 
As to the pace, wot sort o' pace do you think I, Tony 
Veller, could have kept a coach goin' at, for five 
hundred thousand pound a mile, paid in advance 
afore the coach wos on the road? And as to the 
ingein — a nasty, wheezin', creakin', gaspin', puffin', 
bustin' monster, alvays out o' breath, vith a shiny 
green and gold back, like a unpleasant beetle — as 
to the ingein, as is always a pourin' out red-hot 
coals at night, and black smoke in the day, the sensi- 
blest thing it does, in my opinion, is, ven there's some- 
thin' in the vay, and it sets up that 'ere frightful 
scream, vich seems to say, " Now, here's two hundred 
and forty passengers in the wery greatest extremity o' 
danger, and here's their two hundred and forty screams 
in vun." [Master II. aiid Mr. P. laugh heartily, 

Mr. P, {To Master H.) And now, my dear 
sir, I must leave you, hoping to meet you and your 
friends at the next meeting of your society. (Goes to 
L. u. E., a7zd takes his overcoat fro?7i a chair on 
which he laid it as he entered.') Now, Sam ! 

Mr. W. {Taking Mn.^:^ coat from hi7n.) All 
right, sir. Hold hard, sir. Right arm fust — now the 
left — now one strong conwulsion, and the great coat's 
on, sir. 

[Sam aids Mr. W., and together they put 
the coat on.) with much tugging. Mr. 



l8o DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

W. goes out^ L., and returns with a lan- 
tern^ which he had lej^t just outside the 
door. 

Mr. W. Lamps alight, sir? 

Mr. P. I think not, to-night. 

Mr. W. Then if this here genTm'n {to Master 
H.) vill per-mit, we'll leave it here, ready for our 
next journey. This here lantern, sir {holds it up)., 
vunce belonged to the celebrated Bill Blinder, as is 
now at grass, as all on us vill be in our turns. Bill, 
sir, wos the hostler as had charge o' tliem two veil- 
known piebald leaders that run in the Bristol fast 
coach, and vould never go to no other tune but a suth- 
erly vind and a cloudy sky, wich wos consekently 
played incessant by the guard wenever they wos on 
duty. He wos took wery bad one arternoon, arter 
having been off his feed, and wery shaky on his legs 
for some veeks ; and he says to his mate, " Matey," he 
sa3^s, " I think I'm goin' the wrong side o' the post, 
and that my foot's wery near the bucket. Don't say I 
ain't, for 1 know I am ; and don't let me be interrupted, 
for I've saved a little money, and I'm a-goin' into the 
stable to make my last vill and testymint." " I'll 
take care as nobody interrupts," says his mate ; '' but 
you on'y hold up your head, and shake your ears a 
bit, and you're good for twenty years to come." Bill 
Blinder makes him no answer, but he goes avay into 
the stable, and there he soon arterwards lays himself 
down a'tween the two piebalds, and dies — prevously a 
writin' outside the corn-chest: " This the last vill and 
testymint of Villiam Blinder." They wos nat'rally 
wery much amazed at this, and arter looking among 



THE TWO CLUBS. l8l 

the litter, and up in the loft, and vere not, they opens the 
corn-chest, and finds that he'd been and chalked his 
vill inside the lid ; so the lid was obligated to be took 
off the hinges, and sent up to Doctor Commons, to be 
proved ; and under that 'ere wery instrument tliis here 
lantern was passed to Tony Veller, vich circumstance, 
sir, gives it a wally in my eyes, and makes me rek-vest, 
if you vill be so kind as to take partickler care on it. 

Master H, {Laughing,) I will see that the best 
possible care is taken of it, Mr. Weller. 

Mr. W, Thank'ee sir. {Deposits laitterii in corner.) 

[Mr. p. and Master H., laughing, shake 

hands. H. acconipanles P. to the door. 

JExlt Y., followed closely by Mr. W.'a}id 

Sam, who bow themselves out. Curtain. 



l82 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 



Mr. Weller*s Watch. 

Scene: Miss Benton's Parlor. Table in centre; on 
it a7t ale jug and glasses; several new fifes ; a 
supply of tobacco; eatables displayed on the 
dresser; chairs a?id stools about the room. Miss 
B. sitting alone. Tap at door. Mr. Weller 
opens it and looks in. 

Mr, Weller. Good ev'nin', mum. I'm afeerd 
we've come in rayther arter the time, mum, but the 
young colt bein' full o' wice, has been a boltin' and 
shyin', and gettin' his leg over the traces to sich a extent 
that if he ain't wery soon broke in, he'll w^ex me into 
a broken heart, and then he'll never be brought out no 
more except to learn his letters from the writin' on his 
grandfather's tombstone. {^Enters^ leading young 
Tony, who has a very small whip in his hand; Tony 
stops., and standing with his legs wide apart^ winks 
at Miss B. Mr. W. is delighted.) There's a naugh- 
ty boy, mum ; there's a immoral Tony. Was there 
ever a little chap o' four year and eight months old, as 
vinked his eye at a strange lady afore } 

Tony. {Sjzapping Iiis whip and addressing Miss 
B.) Ya — hip! Going dowrn the road.? (Mr. W., 
delighted., gives him a penny^ 

Mr. W. It's in wain to deny it, mum ; this here is 
a boy arter his grandfather's own heart, and beats out 
all the boys as ever wos or will be. Though at the 
same time, mum {looking gravely at Tony), it was 
wery wrong on him to want to over all the posts as 
we cum along, and wery cruel on him to force poor 



THE TWO CLUBS. 183 

grandfather to lift him cross-legged over every viin of 
'em. He wouldn't pass one single blessed post, mum ; 
and at the top o' the lane there's seven and forty on 
'em all in a row, and wery close together. (^J3zi?'sis 
into a Jit ojf laughter^ but checks himself^ and says 
gravely.^ Little boys as make their grandfathers put 
'em over posts, never go to heaven at any price. 

Miss B. (^Patting Tony on the head.) He's the 
finest little boy I ever saw. 

Mr. IV. Wy, mum, I don't think you'll see a many 
sich, and that's the truth. But if my son Samivel 
vould give me my vay, mum, and only dispense with 
his, — might I wenter to say the vurd ? 

Miss B. What word, Mr. Wellcr? 

Mr. W. Petticuts^ mum. {Lays his hands on 
Tony's dress.) If my son Samivel, mum, vould only 
dispense vith these here, you'd see such a alteration in^ 
his appearance, as the imagination can't depicter. 

Miss B. But what would you have the child wear 
instead, Mr. Weller? 

Mr. IV. I've offered my son Samivel, mum, agen 
and agen, to purv/ide him, at my own cost, vith a suit 
o' clothes as 'ud be the makin' on him, and form his 
mind in infancy for those pursuits as I hope the family 
o' the Vellers vill alvays dewote themselves to. Tony, 
my boy, tell the lady wot them clothes air, as grand- 
father says father ought to let you vear. 

Tony. {Promptly and without stops.) A little 
white hat and a little sprig weskut and little knee 
cords and little top-boots and a little green coat with 
little bright buttons and a little welwet collar. * 

j\Ir. W. {Proudly.) That's the costoom, mum. 



184 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

Once make sich a model on him as that, and you'd say- 
he wos a angeL 

[Miss B. coughs doubtfully^ a7id a silence 
ensues. 

Miss B. ( To Tony.) How many brothers and 
sisters have you, my dear? 

To7iy. (^Taking a seat by her.) One brother and 
no sister at all. Sam his name is and so's my father's. 
Do you know my father ? 

Miss B. O, yes, I know him. 

To7ty. Is my father fond of you ? 

Miss B. I hope so. 

Tony. (Co7zside?'i7?g.) Is my grandfather fond of 
you ? 

Miss B. {I7i co7iJ'usio7i.) Really, children do ask 
such extraordinar}^ questions ! It is the most difficult 
thing in the world to talk to them. 

M7'. W. I'm wery fond o' the lady, my boy. 

Miss B. {Looking a7iother way.) La, Mr. Wel- 
ler, don't be putting such things into the child's head. 

Mr. W. {Shaking his head.) It's wery wrong in 
little boys to make game o' their grandfather, ain't it, 
m u m ? ( Sitti7ig down.) 

Miss B. O, very sad ! But I hope no little boys 
do that. 

Mr. W. There's vun Turk, mum, as havin' seen his 
grandfather a little overcome vith drink on the occa- 
sion of a friend's birthday, goes a-reelin' and staggerin' 
about the house, and makin' believe that he's the old 
genTm'n. 

Miss. B. O, quite shocking ! 

Mr. W. Yes, mum, and prevously to so doin', this 



THE TWO CI.UBS. 1 85 

here young traitor that I'm a speakin' of, pinches his 
little nose to make it red, and then he gives a hiccup, 
and says, " I'm all right," he says, " Give us another 
song!" Ha, ha! " Give us another song," he says. 
Ha, ha, ha ! 

7ony. {Kicki72g iif his legs and laughing.) 
That was me, that was. 

Air. IV. ( Very soleinnlyi) No, Tony, not )'^ou. 
I hope it warn't you, Tony. It must ha' been that 'ere 
naughty little chap as comes sometimes out o' the 
empty watch-box round the corner — that same little 
chap as wos found standing on the table afore the look- 
ing-glass, pretending to shave himself vith a oyster- 
knife. 

Miss B. He didn't hurt liimself. I hope. 

Mr. W. {Proudly.) Not he, mum. Bless your 
heart, you might trust that 'ere boy vith a steam en- 
geln a'most, he's such a knowin' young — {Stops sud- 
denly and groans)., it was all wery shocking — wery. 
O, he's a bad 'un, is that 'ere watch-box boy, makin' 
such a noise and litter in the back yard, waterin' 
wooden horses, and feedin' ov'em with grass, and per- 
petivally spillin' his little brother out of a veelbarrow, 
and frightenin' his mother out of her wits, oh — he's a 
bad 'un. He's even gone so far as to put on a pair o' 
paper spectacles, as he got his father to make for him, 
and walk up and down the garden vith his hands be- 
hind him, in imitation ov Mr. Pickwick — but Tony 
don't do sich things, oh, no ! 

Tony. Oh, no ! 

Mr. IV. He knows better — he does. He knows 
that if he wos to come sich games as these, nobody 



l86 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

wouldn't love him, and that his grandfather, in partik- 
ler, couldn't a-bear the sight ov him ; for vich reasons 
Tony's always good. 
Tony. Always good ! 

[Mr. W. takes him 07t his knee a7td kisses 
him; foints to Tony ajid winks at Miss 
B., to signify that he was the watch-box 
bov 7'efe7'red to. Door., "L.^opeiis., and Sam 
enters; soon after., enter, i^.,M.n. Slith- 
ers, the barber; Miss B. introduces; 
Mr. W. puts Tony down. He plays 
about the roo?7i, and at last goes to sleep 
in an arm-chair. 
Miss. B. Mr. Slithers, gentlemen, will assist me 
in the responsible office of entertaining my distin- 
guished visitors. Indeed, without Mr. Slithers, I 
should be placed in quite an awkward situation. 

Mr. W. {Politely.) There's no call for any hock'- 
erdness, mum ; no call wotsumever. A lady can't be 
hock'erd. Natur has otherwise purwided. 

[Miss B. smiles sweetly. 

Mr. S. {Rubbiiig his hands.) Hear ! Hear ! 

Very true, sir. \_All sit. 

Sam. {Turningandfxinghis eyes onlAB.. S.) I 

never knew but vun o' your trade, sir ; but he wos 

worth a dozen, and wos indeed dewoted to his callin' ! 

Mr. S. Was he in the easy-shaving way, sir, or in 

the cutting and curling line ? 

Sam. Both. Easy shavin' wos his natur, and cut- 
tin' and curlin' wos his pride and glory. His whole 
delight wos in his trade. His name wos Jinkinson. 
Well, vun day he wos took wery ill with some in'nard 



THE TWO CLUBS. 187 

disorder, lost the use of his legs, and wos confined to 
his bed, vere he laid a wery long time. Vun day, the 
doctor happenin' to say, " I shall look in as usual to- 
morrow mornin', Jinkinson catches hold of his hand, 
and says, " Doctor," he says, " will you grant me one 
favor.'' " " I will, Jinkinson," says the doctor. " Then, 
doctor," says Jinkinson, *' vill you come unshaved, and 
let me shave you.? " ''I will," says the doctor. " God 
bless you," says Jinkinson. Next day the doctor came, 
and arter he'd been shaved all skilful and reg'lar, he 
says, "Jinkinson," he says, '' it's wery plain this does 
you good. Now," he says, ••' I've got a coachman 
as has got a beard that it 'ud warm your heart to 
work on ; and though the footman," he says, '' hasn't 
got much of a beard, still he's a tryin' it on vith a pair 
o' viskers to that extent that razors is Christain charity. 
If they take it in turns to mind the carriage wen it's a 
waitin' below," he says, " wot's to hinder you from oper- 
atin' on both of 'em ev'ry day, as well as on me ? You've 
got six children," he says ; " wot's to hinder you from 
shavin' all their heads, and keepin' 'em shaved ? You've 
got two assistants in the shop down stairs ; wot's to hin- 
der you from cuttin' and curlin' them as often as you 
like.? Do this," he says, ''and you're a man agin." 
Jinkinson squeedged the doctor's hand and begun that 
wery day ; he kept his tools upon the bed, and wen- 
ever he felt his-self gettin' worse, he turned to at vun 
o' the children who wos a runnin' about the house 
vith heads like clean Dutch cheeses, and shaved him 
agin. Vun day the lawyer come to make his vill ; all 
the time he wos a takin' it down, Jinkinson wos secret- 
ly a-clippin' avay at his hair with a large pair of scis- 



1 88 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

sors. '" Wot's that 'ere snippin' noise," sa3S the law- 
yer, every now and then ; " it's Hke a man havin' his 
hair cut." " It is wery like a man havin' his hair 
cut," says poor Jinkinson, hidin' the scissors, and 
lookin' quite innocent. By the time the lawyer found 
it out, he vs^as wcry nearly bald. Jinkinson w^os kept 
alive in this vay for a long time, but at last vun day 
he has in all the children, vun arter another, shaves 
each on 'em wery clean, and gives him vun kiss on 
the crown o' his head ; then he has in the two assist- 
ants, and arter cuttin' and curlin' of 'em in the first 
style of elegance, says he feels quite happy in his 
mind, and vishes to be left alone ; and then he dies, 
prevously cuttin' his own hair, and makin' one flat 
curl in the wery middle of his forehead. {Takes a 
pipe and Jills it.) 

j\I?\ IV. ( Whispe7'ing to Sam.) vSammy, do you 
think I've gone too fur.? 

Sam. Wot do you mean by too fur } 

Mr. W. \xv that 'ere little compliment respectin' 
the want of hock'erdness in ladies. 

Sam. You don't think she's fallen in love with you 
in consekens o' that, do you.? 

Mr. W. More unlikelier things have come to pass, 
my boy. I'm always afeerd of inadwertent captiwa- 
tiou, Sammy. If I know'd how to make myself ugly 
or unpleasant, I'd do it, Samivel, rayther than live in 
this here state of perpetiv^al terror. {They place them- 
selves at table. Mr. W. takes a pipe., Jills it., and 
prepares to light it., but puts it dozvn again.) As 
to imbibin' any o' this here flagrant veed, mum, in the 
presence of a lady {lays down the pipe)^ it couldn't 
be. Samivel, total abstinence, if you please. 



THE TWO CLUBS. 1 89 

Miss B. But I like it of all things 
M?'. W. {Shaking his head.) No — no. 
Miss B. Upon my word I do. Mr. Slithers knows 
I do. [Mr. S. nods. 

Mr. W. {Feebly.) No. 

\_Takes up fipe again. Miss B. lights a 
piece of paper ^ and iizsists 07Z holding 
it to his pipe. He resists. 
Miss B. But my fingers will be burnt. 

[Mr. W. yields., and she lights the pipe. 

Mr. W. takes a long pitff^ and looks 

smilingly upon Miss B. ; but., suddenly 

recollecting hi7nself^ tu7'ns and looks 

sternly at the catidle. 

Sam. I don't think that, if the lady wos agreeable, 

it 'ud be wery far out o' the vay for us four to make 

up a club of our own, like the governors does up 

stairs, and let him {poititiiig with his pipe to his 

father) be the president. 

Miss B. The very thing. Just what I was think- 
ing of. 

Mr. S. And I, too. 

[Mr. W. lays doivn his pipe., uiibuttons the 
lower buttons of waistcoat., pauses and 
takes breath, seizes his watch-chaiii., and 
slowly drags frojji his fob an i7nmensc 
silver watch., which bri7igs the pocket 
with it. He wi7ids it up with a large 
key^ applies it to his ear, gives it a 
half doze7t hard raps 07i the table^ a7id 
lays it dow7i., face upwards. 
Mr. W. That is the title and emblem o' this 'ere 



190 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

society. Sammy, reach them two stools this vay, foi* 
the wacant cheers. Ladies and gen'l'men, Mr. Wel- 
ler's watch is vound up and now a goin'. Order ! 
{Raps the table ivii/i his watch.) Nothing hurts it, 
ladies and genTmen. Falls and concussions of all 
kinds rayther improve it. {Raps again.) And now 
the assosiashun is formally constitooted, — and don't 
let's have no grinnin' at the cheer, Samivel, or I shall 
be committin' you to the cellar, and then p'r'aps we 
may get into wot the 'Merikins call a fix, and the Eng- 
lish a qvestion o' privileges. {Settles himself with 
dignity in his chair.) Samivel, relate an anecdote. 

Sam. {Turning to Mr. S.) We wos a talkin* 
jist now, sir, about barbers. Pursuin' that 'ere fruit- 
ful theme, sir, I'll tell you in a wery few words a 
romantic little story about another barber as p'r'aps 
you may never have heerd. 

Mr. W. Samivel ! {Rapping with his watch.) 
Address your obserwations to the cheer, sir, and not 
to priwate indiwiduals. 

Mr. S. {Rising and leaning over the tahle^ And 
if I might rise to order, I would suggest that barbers 
is not exactly the kind of language which is agreeable 
and soothing to our feelings. You, sir, will correct 
me if I am wrong, but I believe there is such a word 
in the dictionary as hair-dressers. 

Sam. Well, but suppose he wasn't a hair-dresser? 

Mr. W. W}'', then, sir, be parliamentarj^, and 
call him vun, all the more. In the same vay as ev'ry 
gen'l'man, in another place, is a ZTonorable, ev'ry 
barber, in this place, is a hair-dresser. Ven you read 
the speeches in the papers, and see as vun gen'l'man 



THE TWO CLUBS. I9I 

says of another, " The honorable member, if he vill 
allow me to call him so," you vill understand, sir, that 
that means, " If he vill allow me to keep up that 'ei e 
pleasant and uniwersal fiction." 

[Sam gazes in admiration ufon his father. 

and gives a long whistle. Mr. W. 

chuckles. 
Sam. Here's the story. Vunce upon a time there 
wos a young hair-dresser as opened a wery smart little 
shop, vith four wax dummies in the winder, two 
gen'l'men and two ladies, — the gen'l'men vith blue 
dots for their beards, wery large viskers, ou-dacious 
heads of hair, uncommon clear eyes, and nostrils of 
amazin' pinkness — the ladies vith their heads o' one 
side, and their right forefingers on their lips. This 
here young hair-dresser wos so proud o' them dum- 
mies that he wos constantly a runnin' out in the road 
to look at 'em, and constantly a runnin' in again to 
touch up and polish. Vun o' these dummies wos a 
fav'rite vith him beyond the others ; and ven any of 
his acquaintance asked him wy he didn't get married 
— as the young ladies he knowed, in partick'ler, often 
did — he used to say, "Never ! I never vill enter into 
the bonds of vedlock," he says, " until I meet vith a 
young 'ooman as realizes my idea o' that 'ere fairest 
dummy vith the light hair. Then and not till then, I 
vill approach the altar ! " All the young ladies he 
know'd, as had got dark hair, told him this wos wery 
sinful, and that he wos wurshippin' a idle ; but them 
as wos at all near the same shade as the dummy, col- 
ored up wery much, and wos observed to think him a 
wery nice young man. 



192 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

Mr. W. (^Gravely.) Samivel, a member o' this 
assosiashun bein' one o' that 'ere tender sex which is 
now immedetly referred to, I have to rekvest that you 
vill make no reflections. 

Sam. I ain't a makin' any, am I? 

Mr. W. (^Severely.) Order, sir ! i^In his usual 
tone.) Samivel, drive on ! 

Sa?n. The young hair-dresser hadn't been in the 
habit o' makin' this awowal above six months, ven he 
encountered a young lady as wos the wery pictur o' 
the fairest dummy. " Now," he says, "• it's all up. I 
am a slave ! " The young lady w'os not only the pic- 
tur o' the fairest dummy, but she was wery romantic, 
as the young hair-dresser was, too ; and he says, " Oh," 
he says, " here's a community o' feelin' ; here's a flow 
o' soul," he says ; " here's a interchange o' sentiment." 
The young lady didn't say much, o' course ; but she 
expressed herself agreeable, and shortly artervards 
vent to see him vith a mutual friend. The hair-dresser 
rushes out to meet her, but d'rectly she sees the dum- 
mies she changes color, and falls a trembling wio- 
lently. " Look up, my love," says the hair-dresser ; 
" behold your imige in my winder, but not correcter 
than in my 'art ! " " My imige ? " she says. '"• Your'n," 
replies the hair-dresser. " But whose imige is that?" 
she says, a p'intin' at vun o' the gen'l'men. " No 
van's, my love," he says ; " it is but a idea." " A 
idea ! " she cries ; "• it is a portrait, I feel it is a por- 
trait, and that 'ere noble face must be in the miling- 
tary ! " " Wot do I hear?" says he, a crumplin' his 
curls. " Villiam Gibbs," she says, quite firm, "• never 
renoo the subject. I respect you as a friend, but my 



THE TWO CLUBS. 1 93 

affections is set upon that manly brow." " This," 
says the hair-dresser, " is a reg'lar bhght, and in it I 
perceive the hand of Fate. Farevell ! " Vith these 
vurds, he rushes into the shop, breaks the dummy's 
nose vith a blow of his curlin' irons, melts him down 
at the parlor fire, and never smiles artervards 

Miss B. The young lady, Mr. Weller? 

Sa7n, Why, ma'am, finding that Fate had a spite 
agin her, and everybody she come into contact vith, 
she never smiled neither, but read a deal o' poetry, 
and passed avay — by rayther slow degrees, for she 
ain't dead yet. 

Mr. S. That is one of the most interesting stories 
I ever heard. 

Miss B, Very interesting, indeed. 

Sam. ( To Mr. S.) Are you a married man, sir? 

Mr. S. I have not that honor. 

Sam. I s'pose you mean to be ? 

Mr. S. Well {rtcbbijig his hands)., I don't know. 
I don't think it's very likely. 

Sa772. That's a bad sign. If you'd said you meant 
to be vun o' these days, I should ha' looked upon you 
as bein' safe. You're in a wery precarious state. 

Mr. S. I'm not conscious of any danger, at all 
events. 

Mr. W. No more wos I, sir. Those vere my 
symptoms, exactly. I've been took that vay twice. 
Keep your vether eye open, my friend, or you're 
gone. {A sile7ice. Miss B. sighs.) Is there any- 
thin' wery piercin' in that 'ere little heart, mum? 

Miss B. {Laughi77g.) Dear me, Mr. Weller! 

Air. W. No, but is there any thin' as agitates it? 
13 



194 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

Has it always been obderate, — always opposed to the 
happiness o' human creeturs? Eh, has it? (Miss B., 
in co72fusion^ discovers that the jug is empty ^ a7id^ 
taking it^ hur?'ies out of the room^ r., followed by 
Mr. S., who insists on carrying the candle. Mr. 
W. looks smilingly after Miss B., and disdainfully 
after Mr. S. ; then., surveying the room., his eye 
falls upon Sam.) Sammy, I mistrust that barber. 

Sam, Wot for? Wot's he got to do vidi you? 
You're a nice man, you are ! Arter pretendin' all 
kinds o' terror, to go a payin' compliments, and talkin' 
about hearts and piercers ! 

Mr. W. ( Chokijig with laughter^ Wos I a 
talkin' about hearts and piercers? Wos I though, 
Sammy, eh? 

Sam. Wos you ? Of course you wos. 

Mr. W. She don't know no better, Sammy. There 
ain't no harm in it — no danger, Sammy ; she's only a 
punster. She seemed pleased, though, didn't she? O* 
course she wos pleased. It's nat'ral she should be — 
wery nat'ral. 

Sa772. {Laughing.) He's wain of it ! He's ac- 
tually wain ! 

Mr. W, Hush! they're a comin' back — the little 
heart's a comin' back. But mark these wurds o' mine 
once more, and remember 'em ven your father says he 
said 'em : Samivel, I mistrust that 'ere deceitful bar- 
ber. 

[ Curtain. 



PURSUIT OF KNOWLEDGE. 



PURSUIT OF KNOWLEDGE. 



''A Literary Man." 

Scene : A Street Corner. Enter Silas Wegg. 
(See Index.) He carries a " chair^ a covered 
clothes-horse^ a pair of trestles^ a boards a basket^ 
and an umbrella^ all strapped together'^ Sep- 
arating them ^ he makes^near a lainp-post^a coun- 
ter of the board and trestles; takes from the bas- 
ket fruits^ (^c.^for sale^ a7id spreads them on the 
coirnter ; places the clothes-horse as a screen^ to 
protect him against the wind; fastens on this 
screen a giiantity of penny ballads; opens his um- 
brella and puts it up over the 



table; in front of counter^ he 
hangs a placard^ fastened to 
a board; puts stool behind the 
counter^ and basket under it ; 
sits down^ with his back against 
the lamp-post^ and his feet in 
the basket. 



Errands gone 

On with fi 

Delity By 

Ladies & Gentlemen 

I remain 

Your Humble Serv'. 

Silas Wegg. 



[N. B. All this can be arranged before the curtain rises, 
if preferred.] 

Wegg. {Looki7jg off.) O ! Here you are again J 
{Musijzgly.) And what are you now? Are you in 
the Funns, or where are you ? Have you lately come 

197 



198 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

to settle in this neighborhood, or do you own another 
neighborhood? Are you in independent circum- 
stances, or is it wasting the motions of a bow on you? 
Come ! I'll speculate ! I'll invest a bow in you. 
(^Riscs and bows^ as Boffin enters^ r.) 

Boffin. Mornfng, sir ! Morning ! Morning ! 
Wegg. (Aside.) Calls me, sir! He won't an- 
swer. A bow gone ! 

Bof. (Crossing stage.) Morning, morning, 
morning ! 

Wegg. (Aside.) Appears to be rather a 'arty old 
cock, too. (76> Boffin.) Good morning to j^o^^, sir. 
Boy. (Stoppi7tg before the stall.) Do you re- 
member me, then ! 

Wegg. I have noticed you go past our house, sir, 
several times in the course of the last week or so. 
Bof. Our house. Meaning — (Points offi.) 
Wegg. (Nodding.) Yes. 

Bof. Oh! (Inquisitively.) Now, what, — what 
do they allow you, now.? 

Wegg. (Dryly ^ It's job-work tliat I do for our 
house. It's not yet brought to an exact allowance. 

Bof Oh ! It's not yet brought to an allowance } 
No ! It's not yet brought to an exact allowance. Oh ! 
Morning, morning, morning ! ( Walks off.) 

^^SS' Appears to be rather a cracked old cock. 
Bof (Retzirjiing.) How did you get your wooden 

leg? 

Wegg. (Tartly.) In an accident. 
Bof Do you like it? 

Wegg. Well ; — I — I haven't got to keep it warm 
Bof. (Mugging his stick.) He hasn't — he hasn't 



A LITERARY MAN. 



199 



got — ha ! ha ! — to keep it warm ! Did you ever hear 
of the name of Boffin? 

Weg-£-. No. I never did hear of the name of 
Boffin. 

■Bof. Do you like it.? 

V^eg-g. {Desperately.) Why, no. I can't say I do. 

Bof. . Why don't you like it? 

^^^S'S!'- I doi'^'t know why I don't ; but I don't at 
all. 

Bof. {Siirilhig.) Now, I'll tell you something 
that will make you sorry for that. My name's Boffin. 

Wegg. I can't help it. {Aside.) And if I could, 
I wouldn't. 

Bof. {Sj72z'Ilng.) But there's another chance for 
you. Do you like the name of Nicodemus? Think 
it over. Nick, or Noddy. 

Wegg. {Sitting dozvn resignedly.) It is not, sir, 
a name as I could wish any one that I had a respect 
for to call me by ; but there may be persons that would 
not view it with the same objections. I don't know 
why. 

Bof Noddy Boffin — Noddy, that's my name. 
Noddy — or Nick — Boffin. What's your name ? 

^(^gg- Silas Wegg. I don't know why Silas, and 
I don't know why Wegg. 

Bof {Hugging his stick closer.) Now, Wegg, 
I want to make a sort of offer to you. Do you re- 
member when you first see me? 

Wegg. {Meditating.) Let me think. L ain't 
quite sure, and yet I generally take a powerful sight of 
notice, too. Was it on a Monday morning, when the 
butcher-boy had been to our house for orders, and 



200 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

bought a ballad of me, which, being unacquainted with 
the tune, I run it over to him? 

Bof. Right, Wegg, right! But he bought more 
than one. 

Wcgg. Yes, to be sure, sir ; he bought several, 
and wishing to lay out his money to the best, he took 
my opinion to guide his choice, and we went over tlie 
collection together. To be sure we did. Here was 
him as it might be, and here was myself as it might 
be, and there was you, Mr. Boffin, as you identically 
are, with your self-same stick under your very same 
arm, and your very same back to us. To — be — 
sure ! Your wery self-same back. 

Bof. What do you think I was doing, Wegg? 

Wegg. I should judge, sir, that you might be 
glancing your eye down the street. 

Bof. No, Wegg. I was a-listening. 

Wegg. {Dubiously') Was you, indeed ? 

Bof. Not in a dishonorable way, Wegg, because 
vou was singing to the butcher ; and you wouldn't 
sing secrets to a butcher in the street, you know. 

Wegg. It never happened that I did so yet, to the 
best of my remembrance. But I might do it. A 
man can't say what he might wish to do some day or 
another. 

Bof. Well, I was a-listening to you and to him. 
And what do you — you haven't got another stool, 
have you? I'm rather thick in my breath. 

Wegg. {Giving up his stool.) I haven't got 
another, but you're welcome to this. It's a treat to 
me to stand, 

Bof Lard! {Sits behind counter.) It's a pleas- 



A LITERARY MAN. 20I 

ant place, this ! {Looks about.) And then to be shut 
in on each side with these balhids, Hke so many book- 
leaf bhnkers ! Why, it's delightful ! 

Weg-g: i^B ending over counter.) If I am not mis- 
taken, sir, you aHuded to some offer or another that 
was en your mind ? 

Bof. I'm coming to it ! All right. I'm coming 
to it ! I was going to say that when I listened that 
morning, I listened with hadmiration amounting to 
haw. I thought to myself, '• Here's a man with a 
wooden leg-^a literary man with — " 
Wegg. N — not exactly so, sir. 

Bof. Why, you know every one of these songs by 
name and by tune, and if you want to read or to sing 
any one on 'em oft' straight, you've only to whip on 
your spectacles and do it ! I see you at it ! 
^^gg' Well, sir, we'll say literary, then. 

Bof. A literary man — w///^ a wooden leg — and 
all Print is open to him ! That's what I thought to 
myself, that morning. {Rising and describing a 
large circle with his ari7i.) All Print is open to him ! 
And it is — ain't it? 

^^gg' {Modestly.) Why, truly, sir. I believe 
you couldn't show me the piece of English print, 
that I wouldn't be equal to collaring and throwing. 

Bof On the spot.? 
^^gg- On the spot. 

Bof I know'd it ! Then consider this. Here am 
I, a man without a wooden leg, and yet all print is 
shut to me. 

^^"^gg- {Complacently.) Indeed, sir? Education 
neglected ? 



202 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

Bof. ( WitJi emphasis.) Neg-lected ! That ain't 
no word for it. I don't mean to say but what if you 
showed me a B, I could so fur give you change for it, 
as to answer Boffin. 

Wegg. Come, come, sir, that's something too. 

Bof. It's something, but I'll take my oath it ain't 
much. 

Wegg, Perhaps it's not as much as could be wished 
by an inquiring mind, sir. 

Bof. Now, look here. I'm retired from business. 
Me and Mrs. Boffin — Henerietty Boffin — which her 
father's name was Henery, and her mother's name was 
Hetty, and so you get it — we live on a compittance, 
under the will of a diseased governor. 
Wegg. Gentleman dead, sir? 

Bof Man alive, don't I tell you ? A diseased gov- 
ernor? Now, it's too late for me to begin shovelling 
and sifting at alphabeds and grammar-books. I'm 
getting to be a old bird, and I want to take it easy. 
But I want some reading — some fine bold reading, 
some splendid book in a gorging Lord-Mayor' s-Show 
of wollumes, as'll reach right down your pint of view, 
and take time to go by you. How can I get that read- 
ing, Wegg? By {tapping him on the breast with 
the head of his stick) paying a man truly qualified 
to do it, so much an hour (say twopence) to come 
and do it. 

Wegg. Hem ! Flattered, sir, I am sure. Hem ! 
This is the offer you mentioned, sir? 

Bof Yes, Do you like it ? 
Wegg, I am considering of it, Mr. Boffin. 

Bof. I don't want to tie a literary man — with a 



A LITERARY MAN. 



203 



wooden leg — down too tight. A halfpenny an hour 
sha*n't part us. The hours are your own to choose, 
after you've done for the day with your house here. I 
live over Maiden Lane way — out Holloway direction 
— and you've only got to go East-and-by-North when 
you've finished here, and you're there. Twopence 
halfpenny an hour. {Takes a ficce of chalk from 
his pockety gets off the stool^ aizd proceeds to work 
out the suvi on the top of it.) Two long'uns and a 
short'un — twopence halfpenny ; two short'uns is a 
long'un, and two two long'uns is four long'uns — mak- 
ing five long'uns ; six nights a week at five long'uns 
a night {scoring them all down separately)^ and 
you mount up to thirty long'uns. A round'un ! Half 
a crown ! 

[Points to the stool; then rubs off the chalk 
a79,d sits dozen ao-ain. 

^^S'S^' {Meditating:) Half a crov/n ! Yes. (It 
ain't much, sir.) Half-a-crown. 

Bof. Per week, you know. 

^^gg' {Musing.) Per week. Yes. As to the 
amount of strain upon the intellect, now. Was you 
thinking at all of poetry? 

Bof. Would it come dearer? 

Wegg. It would come dearer. For when a per- 
son comes to grind off poetry night after night, it is 
but right he should expect to be paid for its weaken- 
ing efiect on the mind. 

Bof. To tell you the truth, Wegg, I wasn't thinking 
of poetry, except in so fur as this : — If you was to hap- 
pen now and then to feel yourself in the mind to tip 
me and Mrs. Boffin one of your ballads, why then we 
should drop into poetry. 



204 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

Weg'g: I follow you, sir. But not being a regular 
musical professional, I should be loath to engage my- 
self for that ; and therefore when I dropped into poet- 
ry, I should ask to be considered so fur in the light 
of a friend. 

Bof. {Shaking- him by the hand.) Very kind of 
you, indeed, Wegg, and much more than I could have 
asked. What do you think of the terms, Wegg? 
Wegg. Mr. Boffin, I never bargain. 
Bof. {Admiringly.) So I should have thought of 
you ! 

Wegg. No, sir. I never did 'aggie, and I never 
will 'aggie. Consequently I meet you at once, free 
and fair, with — Done, for double the money ! 

Bof. {A little staggered.) Well, you know bet- 
ter what it ought to be than I do, Wegg, so we'll 
consider it settled. Could you begin to-night, Wegg.? 
Wegg. Yes, sir. I see no difficulty if you wish it. 
You are provided with the needful implement — a 
book, sir. 

Bof. Bought him at a sale. Eight wollumes. 
Red and gold. Purple ribbon in every wollume, to 
keep the place where you leave off. Do you know 
him.? 

Wegg. The book's name, sir.? 

Bof. {Disappointed.) I thought you might have 
knowed him without it. His name is {speaking 
slowly) Decline-and Fall-Off The-Rooshan-Empire. 
Wegg. {Nodding^ Ay ! indeed ! 
Bof You know him, Wegg ? 

Wegg. (l. of counter^ I haven't been not to say 
right slap through him, very lately, having been other 



A LITERARY MAN. 



205 



ways employed, Mr. Boffin. But know him? Old 
familiar declining and falling off the Rooshan ? Rath- 
er, sir ! Ever since I was not so high as your stick. 
Ever since my eldest brother left our cottage to enlist 
into the army. On which occasion, as the ballad that 
was made about it describes, {recites oratorically) — 

Beside that cottage door, Mr. Boffin, 

A girl was on her knees ; 
She held aloft a snowy scarf, sir. 

Which (my eldest brother noticed) fluttered 
in the breeze. 

[Mr. B. rises and co?ncs out, r. of counter. 

She breathed a prayer for him, Mr. Boffin ; 

A prayer he could not hear. 
And my eldest brother lean'd upon his sword, 
Mr. Boffin, 

And wiped away a tear. 

Bof. {Shaki72g hands with W.) Name your 
hour, Mr. Wegfor. 

Wegg. {Front of coimter.) Call it eight, Mr. 
Boffin. 

Bof. (c.) Where I live, is called the Bower. 
Boffin's Bower is the name Mrs. Boffin christened it 
when we come into it as a property. If you should 
meet with anybody that don't know it by that name 
(which hardly anybody does), when you'Ve got nigh 
upon about a odd mile, or say and a quarter if you 
like, up Maiden Lane, Battle Bridge, ask for Har- 



206 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

mony Jail, and you'll be put right. I shall expect you, 
Wegg {claps him on the shoulder)^ most jyfully. 1 
shall have no peace or patience till you come. Print 
is now opening ahead of me. This night, a literary 
man, with a wooden leg {looks admiringly at W.'s 
leg)^ will begin to lead me a new life ! My fist again, 
Wegg. Morning, morning, morning ! 

\_Exit B. ; curtain. 



A LITERARY MAN. 20/ 



Boffin's Bower. 

Scene : A Large Room ; l., ajireplace; r., a door ; 
at back^ curtained whidows ; on each side of fire- 
place a wooden settle; in firont of each settle^ a 
small table ; on one table eight volumes of '''•The 
Decline and FalV^ iii a row ; on the other ^ bottles 
of different shapes^ water-pitcher and glasses^ 
and a sugar-bowl ; the floor on which these tables 
and settles standi is bare and sanded ; in centre^ 
under a lighted gas chandelier^ a flowery carpet^ 
extendi72g 07ily to within two or three feet of the 
settles; on the carpet a little table^ a sofa^ and a 
footstool^ all very showy ; on the table stuffed 
birds ^ iv ax fruit afzd flowers ; over the settle^ L., 
two or three shelves^ — one holding bottles^ the 
other sundry " cold dishes^' among which are 
half of a meat pie a7td a cold joint. Mr. Boffin 
seated on settle ; Mrs. Boffin o?z her sofa^ with 
her feet on footstool. 

Boffn. This brings me round, my dear, to the 
question we left unfinished ; namely, whether there's 
to be any go-in for Fashion. 

Mrs. Boffin. Now, I'll tell you what I want, 
Noddy. I want Society. 

Bof Fashionable Society, my dear? 

Mrs. Bof. {Laughing heartily.) Yes ! It's 
no good my being kept hei'e like Wax- Work ; is it, 
now? 

Bof. People have to pay to see Wax- Work, my 



208 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

dear, whereas (though you'd be cheap at the same 
money) the neighbors is welcome to see j'021 for noth- 
ing. 

Jifrs. Bof. But it don't answer. When we worked 
like the neighbors, we suited one another. Now we 
have left work off, we have left off suiting one an- 
other. 

Bof. What do you think of beginning work again.? 

Mrs. Bof. Out of the question ! We hiave come 
into a great fortune, and we must do what's right by 
our fortune ; we must act up to it. 

Bof ( Thoughtfully.^ I suppose we must. 

Mrs. Bof. It's never been acted up to yet, and, 
consequently, no good has come of it. 

Bof. True, to the present time. I hope good may 
be coming of it in the future time. Towards which, 
what's your views, old lady ? 

Mrs. Bof. /say, a good house in a good neighbor- 
hood, good things about us, good living, and good 
society, /say, live like our means, without extrava- 
gance, and be happy. 

Bof. Yes, /say be happy, too. 

Mrs. Bof. Lor-a-mussy ! {Laughing., and clap- 
ping her hands., and gayly rocki72g herself to and 
fro.) When I think of me in a light yellow chariot 
and pair, with silver boxes to the wheels — 

Bof. O ! you was thinking of that, was you, my 
dear? 

Mrs. Bof. Yes ! And with a footman up behind ! 
And with a coachman up in front, sinking down into 
a seat big enough for three of him, all covered with 
upholstery in green and white ! And with two bay 



A LITERARY MAN. 209 

horses tossing their heads, and stepping higher than 
they trot long-ways ! * And with you and me leaning 
back inside, as grand as ninepence ! Oh-h-h-li My ! 
Ila-ha-ha-ha-ha ! 

[ Claps her hands^ and rocks herself again^ 
and wipes the tears of laughter from 
, her eyes. 

Bof. {Laughing.) And what, my oid lady — 
what's your views on the subject of the Bower? 

Airs. Bof. Shut it up. Don't part with it, but put 
somebody in it, to keep it. 

Bof. Any other views? 

Mrs. Bof. Noddy {taking a seat by his side on the 
settle., and putting her arm in /^/>), next I think — 
and I really have been thinking early and late — of the 
disappointed girl ; her that was so cruelly disappointed, 
you know, both of her husband and his riches. Don't 
you think we might do something for her? Have her 
to live with us? Or something of that sort? 

Bof. Ne-ver once thought of the way of doing it! 
{Sniiting the table.) What a thinking steam-ingein 
this old lady is ! And she don't know how she does 
it. Neither does the ingein ! 

]\Irs. Bof. {Pulls his ear.) Last and not least, I 
have takefi a fancy. You remember dear little John 
Harmon, before he went to school? Over yonder 
across the yard, at our fire? Now that he is past all 
benefit of the money, and it's come to us, I should like 
to find some orphan child, and take the boy and adopt 
him and give him John's name, and provide for him. 
Somehow, it would make me easier, I fancy. Say it's 
only a whim — 
H 



21 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

Bof. But I don't say so ! 
Mrs. Bof. No ; but, deary, if 3'ou did — 
Bof. I should be a Beast if I did ! 
Mi's.Bof. That's as much as to say you agree? 
Good and kind of you, and Hke you, deary ! And 
now don't you begin to find it pleasant already, to 
think that a child will be made brighter, and better, 
and happier, because of that poor, sad child that day? 
And isn't it pleasant to know that the good will be 
done with the poor, sad child's own money? 

Bof. Yes ; and it's pleasant to know that you are 
Mrs. Boffin, and it's been a pleasant thing to know 
this many and many a year ! 

\_A loud knock. Mr. B. goes to door., r., 

aitd ushers in Silas Wegg. Mrs. B. 

rises a7td stands., c, facing Wegg, who 

stops., r. c, a7id stares at her in amaze- 

me7tt. 

Bof (r.) Mrs. Boffin, Wegg, is a high-flyer at 

Fashion ; and her make is such that she does it credit. 

As to myself, I ain't yet as Fash'nable as I may come 

to be. {Crosses- to L. c.) Henerietty, old lady, this 

is the gentleman that's a going to decline and fall off 

the Rooshan Empire. 

Mrs. Bof. (c.) And I am sure I hope it'll do 
you both good. 

[Wegg walks around., and examines the 
rooin and fur7iiture. 
Bof. Do you like it, Wegg ? 

Wegg. I admire it greatly, sir. Peculiar comfort 
at this fireside, sir. 

Bof Do you understand it, Wegg? 



A LITERARY MAN. 211 

Wegg: {Slowly^ and with his head on one side.) 
Why, in a general way, sir — 

Bo/. You do7?'t understand it, Wegg, and I'll ex- 
plain it. These arrangements is made by mutual con- 
sent between Mrs. Boffin and me. Mrs. Boffin, as 
I've mentioned, is a high-flyer at Fashion ; at present 
I'm not. I don't go higher than comfort, and comfort 
of the sort that I'm equal to the enjyment of. Well, 
then. Where would be the good of Mrs. Boffin and me 
quarrelling over it? We never did quarrel, before we 
came into Boffin's Bower as a property ; why quarrel 
when we have come into Boffin's Bower as a property? 
So Mrs. Boffin, she keeps up her part of the room, in 
her way ; I keep up my part of the room in mine. In 
consequence of which we have, at once, Sociability 
(I should go melancholy mad without Mrs. Boffin), 
Fashion, and Comfort. (Mrs. B. approaches him., 
and draws her arm through his.) If I get by de- 
grees to be a high-flyer at Fashion, then Mrs. Boffin 
will bv degrees come for'arder. If Mrs. Boffin should 
ever be less of a dab at Fashion than she is at the pres- 
ent time, then Mrs. Boffin's carpet would go back'- 
arder. If we should both continny as we are, why 
then here we are, and give us a kiss, old lady. (Mrs. 
B. kisses him; Mr. B. wipes his mouth with an air 
of refreshme7it.) So now, Wegg, you begin to know 
us as we are. This is a charming spot, is the Bower, 
but you must get to appreciate it by degrees. It's a 
spot to find out the merits of, little by little, and a new 
'un every day. From those windows, there's a view 
of the neighboring premises, not to be surpassed. The 
premises of Mrs. Boffin's late father (Canine Provision 



212 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

Trade), you look down into, as if they was your own. 
And the top of the High Mound in the yard is crowned 
with a hittice-work Arbor, in which, if you don't read 
out loud man}^ a book in the summer, ay, and, as a 
friend, drop many a time into poetry, too, it shan't be 
my fault. Now, what'U you read on ? 

Wegg. Thank you, sir. I generally do it on gin 
and water. 

^qf. ^Eagerly.) Keeps the organ moist, does it, 

** *^&& • 

Wegg. {Slowly.) N-no, sir ; I should hardly de- 
scribe it so, sir. I should say, mellers it. Mellers it, 
is the word I should employ, Mr. Boffin. 

[Mrs. B. mixes the gin aiid watcr^ Wegg 
continiiiizg to 7'cco7inoiirc. Wegg drinks, 
Mrs. Bof. How do you find it, Mr. Wegg } 
Wegg. Excellent, ma'am. 

\_Sits on settle nearest the hooks; Mr. B. 
5//^ opposite; Wegg takes out his spec- 
tacles^ and prepares to put them on, 
Bof. {Filling his pipe.) Sorry to deprive you 
of a pipe, Wegg, but you can't do both together. Oh, 
and another thing I forgot to name ! When you come 
in here of an evening, and look round you, and notice 
anything on a shelf that happens to catch your fancy, 
mention it. 

Wegg. {Baying dow7z his spectacles.) You read 
my thoughts, sir. B)o my eyes deceive me, or is that 
object up there a — a pie? It can't be a pie ! 

Bof. {Looking uneasily from the shelf to the 
books.) Yes, it's a pie, Wegg. 

Wegg. Have I lost my smell for fruits, or is it a 
apple-pie, sir.? 



A LITERARY MAN. 213 

Bof. It's a veal and ham pie. 

Wegg. Is it, indeed, sir.? And it would be hard, 
sir, to name the pie that is a better pie than a weal 
and hammer. 

Bof. Have some, Wegg? 

Wegg. Thank you, Mr. Boffin, I think I will, at 
your invitation. I wouldn't at any other party's, at 
the present, juncture ; but at yours, sir ! — And meaty 
jell}^ too — especially when a little salt, which is the 
case where there's ham — is mellering to the organ. 

fMn. B. takes down the pie., mid puts it on 
table; Mrs. B. supplies a plate and 
knife and fork ; Wegg attacks the pie 
vigorously. 
Bof It ain't s\.\ici\y fashio7iable^ Wegg, to leave a 
larder exposed in that way ; but I think it's hospitable. 
Wegg. ( With his mouth full.) Very ! 
Bof. You see, instead of saying, in an unmeaning 
sort of a way, to a visitor, '^ There are such and such 
things down stairs ; will you have anything up?" you 
take the bold and practical course of saying, " Cast 
your eye along those shelves, and, if you see anything 
you like there, have it down." 

[Wegg pushes away his plate., a?id puts on 

his spectacles ; Boffin lights his pipe; 

Mrs. B. reclines in a fashionable maiz- 

ner on her sofa; Wegg takes up one of 

the volu?nes^ and., leaning back., opejzs it. 

Wegg. Hem ! This, Mr. Boffin and Lady, is the 

first chapter of the first wollume of the Decline and 

Fall off'— 

\_Stops., and looks hard at the book. 



214 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

Bof. What's the matter, Wegg? 
Wegg. Why, it comes into my mind, do you 
know, sir {looking again at the book), that you made 
a little mistake this morning, which I had meant to 
set you right in, only something put it out of my head. 
I think you said Rooshan Empire, sir? 
Bo/. It is Rooshan ; ain't it, Wegg? 
Wegg. No, sir. Roman. Roman. 
Bo/. What's the difference, Wegg? 
Wegg. The difference, sir? The difference, sir? 
— {Hesitates.) There you place me in a difficulty, 
Mr. Boffin. Suffice it to observe, that the difference 
is best postponed to some other occasion, when Mrs. 
Boffin does not honor us with her company. In Mrs. 
Boffin's presence, sir, we had better drop it. {Repeats 
slowly.) In Mrs. Boffin's presence, sir, we had better 
drop it. 

[Wegg reads^ in a mo7totonous tone., from 

the Jirst volume oj" " The Decline and 

Fall^' as far as the death of Commo- 

dus^ fjiisfronouncing all the proper 

names., as well as many other words; 

Mr. B. listens attentively., often taking 

his fife from his inouth., and staring at 

Wegg in dumb amazement ; Mrs. B. 

goes to sleep., 7zods., wakes and sleeps 

again., many times during the reading. 

The reading ended., Wegg rises and 

takes his leave., accompanied to the door 

by Mr. B. Mrs. B. continues to sleep. 

Wegg. Good-night, Mr. Boffin ! 

Bof Good-night, Wegg! To-morrow. {Shuts 



A LITERARY MAN. 215 

door^ and retiwns to his settle; takes up book^ aiid 
stares at it; lays it down again; stares at the Jire^ 
and soliloquizes.^ Commodious — Commodious fights, 
in that wild beast show, seven hundred and thirty-five 
times in one character only ! As if that wasn't stun- 
ning enough, a hundred lions is turned into that same 
wild beast show all at once ! As if that wasn't stun- 
ning enough. Commodious, in another character, kills 
'em all off in a hundred goes ! As if that wasn't stun- 
ning enough, Vittle-us (and well named, too !) eats six 
millions* worth, English money, in seven months ! 
Wegg takes it easy ; but, upon my soul, to a old bird 
like myself, these are scarers ! And even now that 
Commodious is strangled, I don't see a way to our 
bettering ourselves. (^Shakes his head pensively.^ I 
didn't think this morning there was half so many Scar- 
ers in Print. But I'm in for it now ! {^Rising and 
going to Mrs. B.) Come, old lady, bed-time ! 

[ Curtain, 



THE PROPOSAL. 



THE PROPOSAL.* 



Scene : A Garden ; l., an arbor ^ with table ^ be^icnes^ 
&c.; across the back^ a garden ivall ; Mrs. Nic- 
KLEBY a7td Kate, walking- together. 

Mrs. Kickleby. Kate, my dear, I don't know how 
it is, but a fine, warm siunmer day like this, with the 
birds singing in every direction, always puts me in 
mind of roast pig, with sage and onion sauce, and 
made gravy. 

Kate. That's a curious association of ideas, is it 
not, mamma? 

Mrs. N. Upon my word, my dear, I don't know. 
Roast pig — let me see. On the day five weeks after 
you were christened, we had a roast — no, that couldn't 
have been a pig, either, because I recollect there was 
a pair of them to carve, and your poor papa and I 
could never have thought of sitting down to two pigs 
— they must have been partridges. Roast pig ! I 
hardly think we ever could have had one, now I come 
to remember ; for your papa could never bear the 
sight of them in the shops, and used to say that they 

* This dialogue may be used with advantage as Part II. of 
"Mrs. Nickleby's Suitor," in Vol. I. of this series. 

219 ♦ . 



220 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

always put him in mind of very little babies, only the 
pigs had much fairer complexions ; and he had a hor- 
ror of little babies, too, because he couldn't very well 
afford any increase to his family, and had a natural 
dislike to the subject. It's very odd, now, what can 
have put that in my head ! I recollect dining once at 
Mrs. Bevan's, in tliat broad street round the corner by 
the coach-maker's, where the tipsy man fell through 
the cellar-flap of an empty house nearly a week before 
the quarter day, and wasn't found till the new tenant 
went in — and we had the roast pig there. It must 
be that, I think, that reminds me of it, especially as 
there was a little bird in the room, that would keep on 
singing all the time of dinner — at least, not a little 
bird, for it was a parrot, and he didn't sing exactly, 
for he talked and swore dreadfully ; but I think it 
must be that. Indeed, I am sure it must. Shouldn't 
you say so, my dear? 

Kate. I should say there was not a doubt about it, 
mamma. 

Mrs. N. No ; but do you think so, Kate ? If you 
don't, say so at once, you know ; because it's just as 
well to be correct, particularly on a point of this kind, 
which is very curious, and worth settling while one 
thinks about it. 

Kate. {Laughing.) Oh, I am quite convinced, 
mamma. [ They sit down in the arbor., a?td sew. 

Kate. {Bendi7tg over her work.) Mamma, before 
you were married, had you many suitors ? 

M?'s. N. Suitors, my dear I First and last, Kate, 
I must have had a dozen, at least. 

Kate. Mamma ! 



THE PROPOSAL. 221 

Mrs. N. I had indeed, my dear, not including your 
poor papa, or a young gentleman who used to go, at 
that time, to the same dancing-school, and who would 
send gold watches and bracelets to our house in gilt- 
edged paper, (which were always returned,) and who 
afterwards unfortunately went out to Botany Bay in a 
cadet ship — a convict ship, I mean — and escaped 
into a bush and killed sheep (I don't know how they 
got there), and was going to be hung, only he acci- 
dentally choked himself, and the government pardoned 
him. Then there was young Lukin {^counts off the 
names 07i her Jiizgers^^ Mogley, Tipslark, Cabbery, 
Smifser — 

Voice behhzd the walL Hem ! 

Kate. {Rising.) Mamma, what was that 

Airs. JV. Upon my word, my dear, unless it was 
the gentleman belonging to the next house, I don't 
know what it could possibly — 

Voice, ( Very loud.') A — hem ! 

Mrs. N. I understand it now, my dear. Don't be 
alarmed, my love ; it's not directed to you, and is not 
intended to frighten anybody. Let us give everybody 
their due, Kate : I am bound to say that. 

Kate. What do y6u mean, mamma? 

Mrs. N. {Rising.) Don't be flurried, my dear, 
for you see /'m not; and if it would be excusable in 
anybody to be flurried, it certainly would — under all 
the circumstances — be excusable in me ; but I am 
not, Kate — not at all. 

Kate. It seems designed to attract our attention, 
mamma. 

Airs. N. It is designed to attract our attention, my 



222 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

dear — at least to attract the attention of one of lis. 
Hem ! you needn't be at all uneasy, my dear. 

\_JVoise ; a large cucumber shoots into the 
air over the garden wall^ and falls at 
Mrs. N.'s feet. This is folloived by 
another., and then by a shower of onions^ 
and other small vegetables. After this 
appears over the wall an old black vel- 
vet cap., gradually followed by a very 
large head. 
Kate. {^Moving off.) Mamma, why do you stop? 
Why do you lose an instant? Mamma, pray come in ! 
Mrs. N. (^Holding her back.) Kate, my dear, 
how can you be so foolish? I'm ashamed of you. 
How do you suppose you are ever to get through life, 
if you're such a coward as this ! What do you want, 
sir? How dare you look into this garden? 

Stran. i^Folding his hands together.) Queen of 
my soul, this goblet sip ! 

Airs. N. Nonsense, sir ! Kate, my love, pray be 
quiet. 

Stran. Won't you sip the goblet? ( With his head 
on 07te side and hand on his breast.) O, do sip the 
goblet ! 

Airs. N. I shall not consent to do anything of the 
kind, sir. Pray, begone ! 

Stran. ( Coining up a step higher.) Why is it 
that beauty is always obdurate, even when admiration 
is as honorable and respectful as mine? 

[^Smiles., kisses his ha7td — bows low. 
Kate. Mamma, do you hear him? 
Airs. N. Hush, my dear ! he is very polite, and I 



THE PROPOSAL. 223 

think that was a quotation from the poets. Pray 
don't worry me so — 3'ou'll pinch my arm black and 
blue. Go away, sir ! 

Sti-an. Quite away.'' O, quite away.? 
Mrs. N. Yes, certainly. You have no business 
here. This is private property, sir ; you ought to 
know that. 

Stran. I do know that this is a sacred and en- 
chanted spot, where the most divine charms {kisses 
his hand and boivs) waft mellifluousness over the 
neighbors' gardens, and force the fruit and vegetables 
into premature existence. That fact I am acquainted 
with. But will you permit me, fairest creature, to ask 
you one question? 

Mrs. N. Kate, it's very awkward, positively. I 
really don't know what to say to this gentleman. One 
ought to be civil, you know. 

Kate. Dear mamma, don't say a word to him, but 
let us run away, as fast as we can, and shut ourselves 
up till Nicholas comes home. 

Airs. JV. If you will conduct yourself, sir, like the 
gentleman I should imagine you to be, from your lan- 
guage and — and — appearance (quite the .counter- 
part of your grandpapa, Kate, my dear, in his best 
days,) and will put your question to me in plain words, 
I will answer it. 

[ The old geiitleman pulls off his cap., ex- 
hibiting a perfectly bald head., ?nakes 
several bows., accompanying each with a 
kiss of the hand.^ puts on his cap again., 
and proceeds. 
Stran. The question is {looking cautiously round)^ 
are you a princess? 



224 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

Mrs. N. You are mocking me, sir. 

Sira?t. No, but are you ? 

Afrs. JV. You know I am not, sir. 

Stran. {Anxiously.) Then are you any relation 
to tlie Archbishop of Canterbury ? or to the Pope of 
Rome? or the speaker of the House of Commons.? 
Forgive me, if I am wrong, but I was told you were 
niece to the Commissioners of Paving, and daughter- 
in-law to the Lord Mayor and Court of Common 
Council, which would account for your relationship to 
all three. 

Airs. N. Whoever has spread such reports, sir, has 
taken great liberties with my name, and one which I 
am sure my son Nicholas, if he was aware of it, would 
not allow for an instant. The idea ! niece to the Com- 
missioners of Paving ! 

Kate. Pray, mamma, come away ! 

Mrs. N. '* Pray, mamma ! " Nonsense, Kate ; but 
that's just the way. If they had said I was niece to a 
piping bullfinch, what would you care ! But I have 
no sympathy. ( Weeps.) I don't expect it, that's one 
thing. 

Stran. Tears ! Catch the crystal globules — catch 
*em — bottle 'em up — cork 'em tight — put sealing- 
wax on the top — seal 'em with a Cupid — label 'em 
'' Best quality," and stow 'em away in the fourteen 
bin, with a bar of iron on the top to keep the thunder 
off! ( This last is spoken to ifnaginary attendants 
on the other side of the wall. He then turns re- 
spectfully to Mrs. N.) Beautiful madam, if I have 
made any mistake with regard to your family or con- 
nections, I humbly beseech you to pardon me. If I 



THE PROPOSAL. 



225 



supposed you to be related to Foreign Powers, or na- 
tive Boards, it is because you have a manner, a car- 
riage, a dignity, which you will excuse my saying that 
none but yourself can parallel. I am not a youth, 
ma'am, as you see ; and although beings like you can 
never grow old, I venture to presume that we are fitted 
for each other. 

Mrs. N. {Fai7ttly.') Really, Kate, my love ! 
Stran. I have estates, ma'am, jewels, light-houses, 
fish-ponds, a whalery of my own in the North Sea, 
and several oyster-beds of great profit in the Pacific 
Ocean. I have enemies about me. ma'am, who attack 
me on all occasions, and wish to secure my property. 
If you bless me with your hand and heart, you can ap- 
ply to the Lord Chancellor, or call out the military, if 
necessary -— sending my tooth-pick to the commander- 
in-chief will be sufficient — and so clear the house of 
them before the ceremony is performed. After that, 
love, bliss, and rapture ; rapture, love and bliss. Be 
mine ! Be mine ! Be mine ! 

Mrs. N. Kate, my dear, I have hardly power to 
speak ; but it is necessary for the happiness of all par- 
ties that this matter should be set at rest forever. 

Kate. Surely there is no necessity for you to say 
one word, mamma. 

Mrs. N. You will allow me, my dear, if you please, 
to judge for myself. 

Strati. Be mine ! Be mine ! 

Mrs. N. It can scarcely be expecte.l, sir, that I should 

tell a stranger whether I feel {casting down her eyes) 

flattered and obliged by such proposal^, or not They 

certainly are made under very singular circunistanqes ; 

15 



226 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

Still at the same time, as far as it goes, and to a cer- 
tain extent, of course, they must be gratifying and 
agreeable to one's feelings. 

Stran. Be mine, be mine ! Gog and Magog, Gog 
and Magog. Be mine, be mine ! 

Airs. N. It will be sufficient for me to say, sir, and 
I'm sure you'll see the propriety of taking an answer 
and going away — that I have made up my mind to 
remain a widow, and to devote myself to my children. 
You may not suppose I am the mother of two children 
— indeed many people have doubted it, but it is the 
case, and they are both grown up. We shall be very 
glad to have you for a neighbor — very glad — de- 
lighted, I'm sure — but in any other character it's quite 
impossible — quite. 

[ Old gentleman suddenly throws off his 
coat and jumps 07i top of the wall; a 
hand is put up and seizes one of his an- 
kles. He looks down behi?id the wall 
and bursts into a loud laugh. 

Stran. It's you — is it? 

Keeper's Voice. {Gruffly.) Yes, it's me. 

Stra7i. How's the Emperor of Tartary } 

Keeper. O, he's much the same as usual. No bet- 
ter and no worse. 

Stran. The young Prince of China, is he recon- 
ciled to his father-in-law, the great potato salesman.? 

Keeper. No, and he says he never will be, that's 
more. 

Stran. If that's the case, perhaps I'd better come 
down. 

Keeper. Well, I think you had, perhaps. 



THE PROPOSAL. 227 

[ Old gentleinan drops into a sitting pos- 
ture^ and whilst looking I'otind to bozu to 
Mrs. N. is pulled off the zvall from be- 
hind. His place is supplied by another 
man., who., touching his hat^ addresses 
the ladies. 
Keeper. {Gri7Z7ting.) Beg your pardon, ladles. 
Has he been making love to either of you? 
Kate. Yes. 

Keeper. {Wiping his face.) Ah! he always will, 
you know. Nothing will prevent his making love. 

Kate. I need not ask you if he is out of his mind, 
poor creature. 

Keeper. Why, no ! That's pretty plain — that is. 
Kate. Has he been long so } 
Keeper. A long while. 
Kate. And is there no hope for him.? 
Keeper. Not a bit, and don't deserve to be. He's 
a deal pleasanter without his senses than with 'em. He 
was the cruelest, wickedest, out-and-outerest old flint 
that ever drawed breath. 
Kate. Indeed ! 

Keeper. By George ! I never come across such 
a vagabond, and my mate says the same. Hope for 
hi7n I There isn't too much hope going, but I'll bet a 
crown that v^^hat there is, is saved for more deserving 
chaps than him, anyhow. 

[ Touches his hat and disappears. Mrs. N. 
sighs deeply aitd shakes her head. 
Kate. Poor creature ! 

Mrs. N. Ah ! poor indeed ! It's shameful that 
such things should be allowed — Shameful ! 



228 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

Kate. How can they be helped, mamma? The 
infirmities of nature — 

Mrs, N. Nature ! What ! Do you suppose this 
poor gentleman is out of his mind? 

Kate. Can anybody who sees him entertain any 
other opinion, mamma? 

Mrs. N. Why, then, I just tell you this, Kate, that 
he is nothing of the kind, and I am surprised you can 
be so imposed upon. It's some plot of these people 
to possess themselves of his property — didn't he say 
so himself? He may be a little odd and flighty, per- 
haps, many of us are that ; but downright mad ! and 
express himself as he does, respectfully, and in quite 
poetical language, and making offers with so much 
thought and care and prudence — not as if he ran into 
the streets, and went down upon his knees to the first 
chit of a girl he met, as a madman would ! No, no, 
Kate, there's a great deal too much method in his 
madness ; depend upon that, my dear. 

\^Tkey cross towards n. Curtain. 



MR. MICAWBER'S GAUNTLET. 



MR. MICAWBER'S GAUNTLET. 



Scene : David Copperfield's • Chambers ; l. and 
R., two doors; c, a table^ on ivhich are a punch 
bowl^ bottles and glasses^ pitcher of hot water ^ lem- 
ons^ i&c; also two candles; several chairs^ l. and 
R. ; CoppERFiELD awaiting his friends; a bell 
rings ^ and Mr. and Mrs. Micawber and Mr. 
Traddles, etiter l., and interchange salutatiojzs. 

Afr. Aficawber. {Looki72g aboztt.) My dear Cop- 
perfield, this is kixurious. This is a wayof Hfe which 
reminds me of the period when I was myself in a state 
of celibacy, and Mrs. Micawber had not" yet been so- 
licited to plight her faith at the Hymeneal Altar. 

Airs. Alicawber. (^Archly.) He means solicited 
by hi7?i^ Mr. Copperfield. He cannot answer for 
others. 

Air. AT. {Seriously.) My dear, I have no desiie 
to answer for others. I am too well aware that when, 
in the inscrutable decrees of Fate, you were reserved 
for me, it is possible you may have been reserved for 
one, destined, after a protracted struggle, at length to 
fall a victim to pecuniary involvements of a compli- 
cated nature. I understand your allusion, my love. I 
regret it, but I can bear it. 

2^1 



232 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

Mrs, M. {Bu7'stin^ Into tears.) Micawber ! Mi- 
cawber ! have I deserved this? I, who never have de- 
serted you ; who never vjill desert you, Micawber ! 

Mr. M. {Much affected.') My love, you will for- 
give, and our old and tried friend Copperfield will, I 
am sure, forgive, the momentary laceration of a 
wounded spirit, made sensitive by a recent collision 
with the Minion of Power — in other words, with a 
ribald Turn-cock attached to the water-works — and 
will pity, not condemn, its excesses. ( Weefs and em- 
braces Mrs. M. and squeezes Mr. C.'s hand.) My 
young friend, {tur^img to Copperfield), I am older 
than you ; a man of some experience in life — and of 
some experience, in short, in difficulties, generally 
speaking. At present, and until something turns up 
(which I am, I may say, hourly expecting), I have 
nothing to bestow but advice. Still m}'^ advice is so 
far worth taking that — in short, that I have never 
taken it myself, and am the, — the miserable wretch 
you behold ! 

Mrs. M. My dear Micawber ! 

Mr. M. I say, the miserable wretch you behold. 
My advice is, never do to-morrow what you can do to- 
day. Procrastination is the thief of time. Collar him. 

Mrs. M. My poor papa's maxim. 

Mr. M. My dear, your papa was very well in his 
way, and Heaven forbid that I should disparage him. 
Take him for all in all we ne'er shall — in short, make 
the acquaintance, probably, of anybod}'^ else possess- 
ing, at his time of life, the same legs for gaiters, and 
able to read the same description of print, without 
spectacles. But he applied that maxim to our mar- 



MR. MICAWBER S GAUNTI.ET. 233 

riage, my dear, and that w'^s so far prematurely en- 
tered into, in consequence, that I never recovered the 
expense. Not that I am sorry for it. Qjiite the con- 
trary, my love. {A pause.) My other piece of advice, 
Copperfield, you know. Annual income twenty pounds, 
annual expenditure nineteen, nineteen six, result hap- 
piness ; annual income twenty pounds, annual expendi- 
ture twenty pounds ought six, result misery. The blos- 
som is blighted, the leaf withered, the God of day goes 
down upon tlie dreary scene, and — and, in short, you 
are forever floored. As I am ! (Mr. a/id Mrs. M. i?z 
tears.) 

Copperjield. Come, come, Mr. Micawber ! Cheer 
up ! Cheer up ! This is to be a festive occasion, and 
I rely on you, my dear Mr. Micawber, for a bowl of 
punch. The materials are before you. 

[ Leads him to the table ; Mr. M. recovers 
his spirits.^ takes his place behind table^ 
c, and mixes the pujtch^ talking" volubly^ 
all the ti7ne^ to Copperfield ; Mrs. M. 
sits on his right; Copperfield on his 
left^ and on left ^Copperfield, Trad- 
dles. Mrs. M. ajid Mr. T. converse in 
a low tone. 
JMr. M. i^To C.) And how is our good friend 
Dr. Copperfield? — and all the circle at Canterbury? 
Cop. I have none but good accounts of them. 
Mr. M. I am most delighted to hear it. It was at 
Canterbury where we last met. Within the shadow, I 
ma}- llguratively say, of that religious edifice, immor- 
talized by Chaucer, which was anciently the resort of 
Pilgrims from the remotest corners of — in short, in 
the immediate neisrhborhood of the Cathedral. 



234 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

Cof. It was, Mr. Micawber. 

Mr. M. {^Czittlngand squeeziitg t7ielemo7is.^ We 
are at present established, Copperfield, on what may 
be designated as a small and unassuming scale ; but 
you are aware that I have, in the course of my career, 
surmounted difficulties and conquered obstacles. You 
are no stranger to the fact that there have been periods 
of my life when it has been requisite that I should 
pause until certain expected events should turn up ; 
when it has been necessary that I should fall back be- 
fore making what I trust I shall not be accused of pre- 
sumption in terming — a spring. The present is one 
of those momentous stages in the life of man. You 
see me, fallen back, for a spring ; and I have every 
reason to believe that a vigorous leap will shortly be 
the result. i^A pause.) I am at present engaged in 
the sale of corn on commission ; but it is an avocation 
which does not pay, — and some temporary embarrass- 
ments of a pecuniary nature have been the consequence. 
I am, hov^^ever, delighted to add that I have now an 
immediate prospect of something turning up (I am 
not at liberty to say in what direction), which I trust 
will enable me to provide, permanently, for my family. 
{^Fills his glass and holds it up.) But punch, my 
dear Copperfield, like time and tide {^tastes the punch) .^ 
waits for no man. Ah ! it is at the present moment 
in high flavor. My love, will you give me your 
opinion.? 

Mrs. AL {Tasting.) Excellent, Micawber ! Ex- 
cellent ! 

Mr. M. Then I will drink, if my friend Copper- 
field will permit me to take that social liberty, to the 



MR. MICAWBER's gauntlet. 235 

days when my friend Copperfield and myself were 
younger, and fought our way in the world, side by side. 
I may say, of myself and Copperfield, in words we 
have sung together before now, that — 

" We twa' hae run about the braes, 
And pu'd the gowans fine " 

— in a figurative point of view — on several occasions. 
I am not exactly aware what gowans may be, but I 
have no doubt that Copperfield and myself would fre- 
quently have taken a pull at them, if it had been fea- 
sible. {^Empties his glass.) Ahem ! My dear, 
another glass .^ 

Mrs. M. A very little, Wilkins, my dear. 

Cop. and Trad. No, no ! Mr. Micawbcr, we can't 
allow that ! Fill up the glass ! 

[Mr. M. Jills her glass and those of Cop- 
perfield and Traddles. 

Mrs. M. {^Sipping her punch.) As we are quite 
confidential here, Mr. Copperfield, Mr. Traddles be- 
ing a part of our domesticit}', I should much like to 
have your opinion on Mr. Micawber's prospects. For 
corn, as I have repeatedly said to Mr. Micawber, may 
be gentlemanly, but it is not remunerative. Commis- 
sion to the extent of two and ninepence in a fortnight 
cannot, however limited our ideas, be considered re- 
munerative. 

Cop. and Trad. Certainly not ! 

Airs. M. And then I ask myself this question : If 
corn is not to be relied upon, what \^} Are coals to 
be relied upon? Not at all. VVe have turned our 



236 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

attention to that experiment, on the suggestion of my 
family, and we find it fallacious. (Mr. M., leaiting 
back in his chaii'^ nods to the company apprpviizgty.) 
The articles of corn and couls {argumentatively), be- 
ing equally out of the question, Mr. Copperfield, I 
naturally look round the world and say, '' What is 
there in which a person of Mr. Micawber's talent is 
likely to succeed } " And I exclude the doing anything 
on commission, because commission is not a certainty. 
What is best suited to a person of Mr. Micawber's 
peculiar temperament is, I am convinced, a certainty. 
(C. and T. imtrfnur assent.') I will not conceal from 
you, my dear xMr. Copperfield, that / have long felt 
the Brewing business to be particularly adapted to Mr. 
Micawber. Look at Barclay and Perkins ! Look at 
Truman, Hanbury, and Buxton ! It is on that exten- 
sive footing that Mr. Micawber, I know from my own 
knowledge of him, is calculated to shine ; and the 
profits, I am told, are c-NOR-mous ! But if Mr. Mi- 
cawber cannot get into those firms, — which decline to 
answer his letters, when he offers his services even in 
an inferior capacity, — what is the use of dwelling upon 
that idea ? None. I may have a conviction that Mr. 
Micawber's manners — 

Mr. AI. Hem ! Really, my dear. 

Airs. AI. (^Laying her hand 07t his.) My love, 
be silent. I may have a conviction, Mr. Copperfield, 
that Mr. Micawber's manners peculiarly qualify him 
for the Banking business. I may argue within myself, 
that if / had a deposit at a banking-house, the man- 
ners of Mr. Micawber, as representing that banking- 
house, Would inspire confidence, and must extend the 



MR. MICAWBER's gauntlet. zVl 

connection. But if the various banking-houses refuse 
to avail themselves of Mr. Micaw^ber's abilities, or re- 
ceive the oflbr of them with contumely, what is the 
use of dwelling upon that idea? None. As to ori- 
ginating a banking-business, I may know that there 
are members of my family who, if they chose to 
place their money in Mr. Micawber's hands, might 
found an establishment of that description. But" if 
they do not choose to place their money in Mr. Mi- 
cawber's hands— which they don't — what is the use 
of that? Again I contend that we are no farther ad- 
vanced than we were before. 
Cop. Not a bit. 
Ml'. Traddles. Not a bit. 

Mrs. M. What do I deduce from this? What is 
the conclusion, my dear Mr. Copperfield, to which I 
am irresistibly brought? Am I wrong in saying, it is 
clear that we must live? 
Cop. Not at all. 
Mr. T. Not at all. 
Cop. A person must either live or die. 
Mrs. M. Just so ! It is precisely that. And the 
fact is, my dear Mr. Copperfield, that we can not live 
without something widely different from existing cir- 
cumstances shortly turning up. Now I am convinced, 
myself, and this I have pointed out to Mr. Micawber 
several times of late, that things cannot be expected 
to turn up of themselves. We must, in a measure, 
assist to turn them up. I may be wrong, but 1 have 
formed that opinion. 

Cop. \ r. . - ■ 

1 / ^ i Cjood, excellent ! 
J/r. J. ) 



238 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

Mrs. M. Very well. Then what do I recommend ? 
Here is Mr. Micawber, with a variety of qualifications 
— with great talent — 

Mr. M. Really, my love. 

Mrs. M. Pray, my dear, allow me to conclude. 
Here is Mr. Micawber, with a variety of qualifications, 
with great talent — /should say, with genius, but that 
may be the partiality of a wife — 

2-. I*- 

Mrs. M. And here is Mr. Micawber without any 
suitable position or employment. Where does that 
responsibility rest? Clearly on society. Then I would 
make a fact so disgraceful known, and boldly chal- 
lenge society to set it right. It appears to me, my dear 
Mr. Copperfield, that what Mr. Micawber has to do, 
is to throw down the gauntlet to society, and say, in 
efTect, *' Show me who will take that up. Let the 
party immediately step forward." 

Cop, And pray, Mrs. Micawber, how is this to 
be done } 

Mrs. M. By advertising in all the papers. It ap- 
pears to me, that what Mr. Micawber has to do, in 
justice to himself, in justice to his family, and I will 
even go so far as to say in justice to society, by which 
he has been hitherto overlooked, is to advertise in all 
the papers; to describe himself plainly as so and so, 
with such and such qualifications, and to put it thus : 
'''' Nozv., employ me, on remunerative terms, and address, 
post-paid, to W. iiyi, Post-OfUce, Camden Town." 

Mr. M. This idea of Mrs. Micawber's, my dear 
Copperfield, is, in fact, the leap to which I alluded 
just now. 



MR. MICAWBEr's gauntlet. 2''Q 

Cop. {Diihiotisly.) Advertising is rather expen- 
sive. 

Mrs. M. Exactly so! Qiiite true, my dear Mr. 
Copperfield ! I have made the identical observation 
to Mr. Micawber. It is for that reason especially, that 
I think Mr. Micav^^ber ought (as I have already said 
in justice to himself, in justice to his family, and in 
justice to society) to raise a certain sum of money — 
-on a bill. (Mr. M. leans back in Jus chair "and 
gazes at the ceiling, playijzg with his eye-glass.) If 
no member of my family is possessed of sufficient 
natural feeling to negotiate that bill — I believe there 
is a better business-term to express v^^hat I mean — 
Mr. M. Discount. 

Mrs. M. To discount that bill, then my opinion is, 
that Mr. Micawber should go into the City, should take 
that bill into the Money Market, and should dispose 
of it for what he can get. If the individurds in the 
Money Market oblige Mr. Micawber to sustain a great 
sacrifice, that is between themselves and their con- 
sciences. I view it, steadily, as an investment. I 
recommend Mr. Micawber, my dear Mr. Copperfield, 
to do the same ; to regard it as an investment which is 
sure of return, and to make up his mind to a^zy sacri- 
fice. 

Cop. Very self-denying and devoted in you, Mrs. 
Micawber. 

Mr. T. Very. 

Mrs. M. I will not {Jinishiizg her punch) — I will 
not protract these remarks on the subject of Mr. Micaw- 
ber's pecuniary afiairs. At your fireside, my dear Mr! 
Copperfield, and in the presence of Mr. 1 raddles, who, 



240 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

though not so old a friend, is quite one of ourselves, 
I could not refrain from making 3'-ou acquainted with 
the course /advise Mr. Alicawber to take. I feel that 
the time is arrived when Mr. Micawber should exert 
himself, and, I will add, assert himself, and it appears 
to me that these are the means. I am aware that I am 
merely a female, and that a masculine judgment is 
usually considered more competent to the discussion 
of such questions ; still I must not forget that when 1 
lived at home with my papa and mamma, my papa was 
in the habit of saying, '' Emma's form is fragile, but her 
grasp of a subject is inferior to none." That my papa 
was too partial, I well know ; but that he was an ob- 
server of character in some degree, my duty and my 
reason equally forbid me to doubt. 

^Exit Mrs. M., r. 

Mr. M, There's a woman ! Such a wife as she 
has made ! Ever a guide, philosopher, and friend to 
me. Take my advice, Copperfield, and when you 
marry, marry such a woman as that, if such another is 
to be found. 

Mr. C. Allow me to propose : Mrs. Micawber ! 
{^They drink together; Mrs. M. re-enters a7id re- 
stimes her place at tablc.^ 

Mr. M. And here's to Canterbury ! Success to 
it ! We were very comfortable there, and I shall 
never forget the agreeable hours passed there. 

\^They then '* toast" one another in succcs- 
sio7i; all join hands around the table 
and sing- '•'Auld Lang Sync^' and the 
Sce7ie closes. 



SCENES IN "THE FLEET," 




OLD WELLER AND THE COACHMEN. 

From a design by S. Eytinge, Jr. 

Eng-aved expressly for J AS. R. OSGOOD & CO.'S Diamond Dickens. 



SCENES IN "THE FLEET." 



Sam Weller's Resolution. 

Scene : Mr. Pickwick's Room in Prison.* Mr. P. 
seated; Sam inspecting the rooin; sundry pack' 
ages in one corner. 

Mr, Pickwick. Well, Sam. 

Sam. Well, sir. 

Mr. P. Pretty comfortable now, eh, Sam? 

Sain. (^Disparagingly.') Pretty veil, sir. 

Mr. P. Have you seen Mr. Tupman, and our 
other friends } 

Sam. Yes, I have seen 'em, sir, and they're a- 
comin' to-morrow, 

Mr. P. You have brought the things I wanted.? 
{^Km points to packages.) Very well, Sam. {Hesi- 
tates.) Listen to what I am going to say, Sam. 

Sa7?i. Cert'nly, sir ; fire avay, sir. 

Air. P. {Solemnly.) I have felt from the first, 
Sam, that this is not the place to bring a young man 
to. 

* Judgment having been declared against Mr. Pickwick, 
in the famous case of Bardell vs. Pickwick, he refused to 
pay the damages awarded Mrs. Bardell by the jury, and 
was therefore sent to prison. 

24^ 



244 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

Sam. Nor an old 'un neither, sir. 

Mr. P. You're quite right, Sam ; but old men may 
come here through their own heedlessness and unsus- 
picion ; and young men may be brought here by the 
selfishness of those they serve. It is better for those 
young men, in every point of view, that they should 
not remain here. Do you understand me, Sam? 

Sam. Vy no, sir, 1 do not. 

Mr. P. Try, Sam. 

Sam. {After a short pause.) Veil, sir, I think I 
see your drift ; and if I do see your drift, it's my 'pin- 
ion that you're a-comin' it altogether too strong, as the 
mail-coachman said to the snow-storm, ven it overtook 
him. 

Mr. P. I see you comprehend me, Sam. Inde- 
pendently of my wish that you should not be idling 
about a place like this for years to come, I feel that 
for a debtor in the Fleet to be attended by his man-ser- 
vant is a monstrous absurdity. Sam, for a time, you 
must leave me. 

Sam. {Sarcastically.) O, for a time, eh. sir? 

j\Ir. P. Yes, for the time that I remain here. Your 
wages I shall continue to pay. Any one of my three 
friends will be happy to take you, were it only out of 
respect to me. And if I ever do leave this place, — if 
I do, I pledge you my word that you shall return to me 
instantly. 

Sa?7i. ( Grcively.) Now I'll tell you wot it is, sir, 
this here sort o' thing won't do at all ; so don't let's 
hear no more about it. 

Mr. P. I am serious, and resolved, Sam. 



SCENES IN THE FLEET. 24^^ 

Sam. {Firmly.) You air, air you, sir? Wery 
good, sir. Then so am I. 

\^Pr esses Jiis hat on firmly with both hands, 
and hurries out of the roo?n. 
Mr. P. {Risi?zg ajzd calliiig off.) Sam ! Sam ! 
^^^"^- ^Curtain, 



246 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 



How HE CARRIED IT OUT. 

« 

Scene : A Room in an Inn ; table and chairs^ c. ; 
Mr. Weller seated at table; enter Sam in haste. 

Samuel. O, here you are ! 

Mr. Weller. {Looking up.^ Samivel ! Wot are 
you a-doin' on here? Your Gov'nor can't do no good 
here, Sammy. They won't pass that werdick, — they 
won't pass it, Sammy. {Shakes his head solemnly.) 

Sa?7i. Wot a perwerse old file it is ! Alvays a-goin* 
on about the werdicks, and alleybis, and that. Who 
said anythin' about the werdick.? (Mr. W. shakes his 
head learnedly^ without replying.) Leave off rattlin' 
that 'ere nob o' yours, if you don't want it to come off 
the springs altogether, and behave reasonable. I vent, 
all the vay down to the Markis o' Granby arter you, 
last night. 

Mr, IV. {Sighing.) Did you see the Marchioness 
o' Granby, Sammy .? 

Sam. Yes, I did. 

Mr. W. How was the dear creetur a-lookin' .'' 

Safn. Wery queer. I think she's a-injurin' herself 
gradivally vith too much o' that 'ere pine-apple rum, 
and other strong medicines o' the same natur. 

Mr. IV. {Earnestly.) You don't mean that, 
Sammy.? 

Satn. I do, indeed. 

[Mr. W. seizes his hand, clasps it, atzd lets 
it fall. 

Mr, W, I ain't quite certain, Sammy; I wouldn't 



SCENES IN THE FLEET. 247 

like to say I was altogether positive, in case of any sub- 
sekent disapp'intment, but I rayther think, my boy — 
I rayther think — that the Shepherd's got the Hver 
complaint. 

SatJi. Does he look bad ? 

Mr. W, He's oncommon pale, 'cept about the 
nose, wich is redder than ever. His appetite is wery 
so-so, but he imbibes wonderful. 

[Mr. W. a7id Sam interchange a succession 
of nods and winks. 

Sam. Veil, now about my affair. Gov'nor's turned 
me off. 

Mr. W. {Astonished.) What? 
* Sam. Won't let me stay vith him. 

Air. W. Stop there by himself, poor creetur ! 
Without nobody to take his part ! It can't be done, 
Samivel, it can't be done. 

Sam. O' course it can't. I knowed that afore I 
came. 

Mr. W. Wy, they'll eat him up alive, Sammy. 
(Sam nods.) He goes in rayther raw, Sammy, and 
he'll come out, done so exceedin' brown, that his most 
formiliar friends won't know him. Roast pigeon's 
nothin' to it, Sammy. (S. nods.) It oughtn't to be, 
Samivel. 

Sam. It mustnU be. 

Mr. W. Cert'nly not. 

Sam. Veil, now, you've been a-prophesyin* away, 
wery fine, like a red-faced Nixon, as the sixpenny 
books gives picturs on. 

Mr. W. Who wos he, Sammy.'* 

Sam. Never mind who he was. He warn't a. 
coachman ; that's enough for you. 



248 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

Mr, W. {Afustn^.) I knovv'd a 'ostler o' that 
name. 

Sa7n. It warn't him. This 'ere gen'l'm'n wos a 
prophet. 

Mr. W. {Sternly.) Wot's a prophet? 

Sam. Wy, a man as tells wot's a-goin' to happen. 

Afr. W. I wish I'd know'd him, Sammy. P'r'aps 
he might ha' throw'd a small light on that 'ere liver 
complaint, as we wos a speakin' on, just now. Hows'- 
ever, if he's dead, and ain't left the bis'ness to nobody, 
there's an end on't. {Sig-Jis.) Go on, Sammy. 

Sam. Well, you've been a-prophesyin' avay about 
what'U happen to the Gov'nor if he's left alone. Don't 
you see any vay o' takin' care on him? 

Mr. W. {Reflecting.) No, I don't, Sammy. 

Sa?n. No vay at all ! 

Afr. W. No vay, unless {brightens up and whis- 
pers in Sam's ear) it is getting hini out in a turn-up 
bedstead, unbeknown to the turnkeys, Sammy? Or 
dressin' him up like a old 'ooman vith a green wail? 
(Sam shakes his head in reply to each question^ 

Sam. You don't see no vay at all, then ? 

Air. W, No, if he von't let you stop there, I see no 
vay at all. It's no thoroughfare, Sammy, no thorough- 
fare. 

Sam. Well, then, I'll tell you wot it is. I'll trouble 
you for the loan o' five-and-tventy pound. 

Mr. W. What good'll that do ? 

Sam. Never mind. P'r'aps you may ask for it, five 
minutes artervurds ; p'ra'ps I may say I von't pay, 
and cut up rough. You von't think o' arrestin' your 
own son for the money, and sendin' him off to the 



SCENES IN THE FLEET. 



249 



Fleet, will you, you unnat'ral wagabone? {They 
wink at one another; Mr. W. laughs until he is fu7'- 
fle.) Wot a old image it is ! Wot are you a-settin' 
there for, wen there's so much to be done.? Vere's 
the money? 

Mr. W. In the boot, Sammy, iu the boot. Hold 
my hat, Sammy. (Sam takes his hat. Mr. W. twists 
himself around until he gets his hand into the pocket 
of his coat; takes out an e7tormous wallet^ and draws 
from it two whip-lashes^ three or four buckles^ a 
sample bag of corn, and, finally., a roll of dirty bills, 
so77ie of which he gives to Sam.) And now, Sammy, 
I know a gen'l'm'n here, as'll do the rest of the bisness 
for us in no time — a limb o' the law, Sammy, as has 
got brains like the frogs, dispersed all over his body, 
and reachin' to the wery tips of his fingers. A friend 
o' the Lord Chancellorship's, Sammy, who'd only have 
to tell him what he wanted, and he'd lock you up for 
life, if that wos all. 

Sa7n. I say, — none o' that ! 

Mr. TV. None o' wot? 

Sa/n. Wy, none o' them unconstitootional ways o' 
doin' it. The have-his-carcass, next to the perpetual mo- 
tion, is vun o' the blessedest things as wos ever made. 
I've read that 'ere in the newspapers, wery of'en. 

Mr. IV. Well, wot's that got to do vith it ? 

Sa7n. Just this 'ere, tliat I'll patronize the inwen- 
tion, and go in that vay. No visperin's to the Chan- 
cellorship. I don't like the notion. It mayn't be alto- 
gether safe, vith reference to the gettin' out again. 

IBxit Mr. W. Sam sits at table and orders 
beer ; two or three coachme7i,frie7ids of 



250 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

Mr. W., drop /;2, and after saluting 
Sam and ordering in beer^ sit at table 
tvith him; they toast one another. 

1st Coachina7i. Come, gentlemen, let's have a 
song! 

2.d Coachniait. If you're so anxious for a song, sing 
one yourself. 

\st Coach. Thank'ee, I'd rather not. 

2d Coach. Why not } 

1st Coach. 'Cause I don't chose to. (Some excite- 
m.ent ensues.^ which Sam watches guietly.^ 

2td Coach?nan. Gentlemen, rather than disturb the 
harmony of this occasion, perhaps Mr. Samuel Wel- 
ler will oblige the company. 

Sam. Raly, gen'l'm'n, I'm not wery much in the 
habit o' singin' without the instrument ; but anythin' 
for a quiet life, as the man said wen he took the sitiva- 
tion at the lighthouse. {Sings.) 



Bold Turpin vunce, on Hounslow Heath, 

His bold mare Bess bestrode-er ; 
Ven there he see'd the Bishop's coach 

A-coming along the road-er. 
So he gallops close to the 'orses' legs, 

And he claps his head vithin ; 
And the Bishop says, " Sure as eggs is eggs, 

This here's the bold Turpin." 

Chorus. And the Bishop says, &c. 

II- 

Says Turpin, '^ You shall eat yovir words, 
With a sarce of leaden bul-let ; '• 



SCENES IN THE FLEET. * 25I 

So he puts a pistol to his mouth, 

And he fires it down his gul-let. 
The coachman he, not hkin' the job, 

Set ofi' at a full gal-lop ; 
But Dick put a couple of balls in his nob, 

And perwailed on him to stop. 

Chorus. {Sarcastically.) But Dick, &c. 

1st Coach. I maintain that that 'ere song's personal 
to the cloth. I demand the name o' that coachman. 

Sa77i. Nobody know'd. He hadn't got his card In 
his pocket. 

1st Coach. I object to the introduction o' politics. 
I submit that, in the present company, that 'ere song's 
political ; and, wot's much the same, that it ain't true. 
I say that that coachman did 7zot run away ; but that 
he died game — game as pheasants ; and 1 won't hear 
nothin' said to the contrairey. 

Enter Mr. Weller and Mr. Pell, lawyer, 

Mr. W. All right, Sammy. 

Mr. Pell. The officer will be here right away. I 
suppose you won't run away meanwhile, eh } Ha ! 
ha! 

Sain. {Grinning.) P'r'aps my cruel pa 'uU relent 
afore then. 

Mr. W. Not I ! 

Sam. Do. 

Mr. W. Not on no account. 

Sam. I'll give bills for the amount, at sixpence a 
month. 

Mr. W. I won't take 'em. 



252 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

]\Ir. P. Ha, ba, ha ! Very good, very good. A very 
amusing incident indeed ! {Hands Mr. W. a papei'.) 
Bill of costs, Mr. VVeller. (Mr. W. gives him money.) 
Thank you, thank you. Three ten and one ten is five. 
Much obliged to you, Mr. Weller. Your son is a 
most deserving young man, very much so, indeed, sir. 
It's a very pleasant trait in a young man's character — 
very much so. 

Mr. W. ( Chuckling-.) Wot a game it is ! A 
reg'lar prodigy son ! 

Mr. P. {Mildly.) Prodigal, prodigal son, sir! 
Afr. W. ( With dignity.) Never mind, sir. I 
know wot's o'clock, sir. Wen I don't, I'll ask you, sir. 
{Enter officer.) Here's your man, Sammy. Wot 
do you say, mates, shall we see him to prison? 
Coachmeit. That we will ! 

\_Officer leads the way; Mr. W. aiid Sam, 
arm-in-arm., come next ; the coachmen., 
also arm-in-artn.^ bring up the rear., and 
exetmt omnes. 



SCENES IN THE FLHET. 253 



A Triumphant Success. 

Scene: Mr. Pickwick's Room in Prison. Mr. P. 
seated^ reading; a knock. 

Ml'. Pickwick, Come in. (Sam enters .^ fulls off 
his hat, and smiles.') Ah, Sam, my good lad, I had 
no intention of hurting your feelings yesterd^f)'', my 
faithful fellow, by what I said. Put down your hat, 
Sam, and let me explain my meaning a little more at 
length. 

Sam. Won't presently do, sir? 

Mr. P. Certainly ; but why not now? 

Sam. I'd rayther not now, sir. 

Mr, P, Why? 

Sam. (^Hesitating.) 'Cause — 

Mr. P, {Alarmed.) Because of what? Speak 
out, Sam. 

Sa?7i. ( Confused.) 'Cause I've got a little bis'ness 
as I want to do. 

Mr. P. What business? 

Sam. Nothin' partickler. 

Mr. P. O, if it's nothing particular, you can speak 
with me first. 

Sai7i. I think I'd better see arter it at once. The 
fact is — 

Mr. P. Well, speak out, Sam. 

Sam. Why, the fact is, p'r'aps I'd better see arter 
my bed, afore I do anythin' else. 

Mr. P. Your bed I 



254 DIALOGUES FROM DICKEN5. 

Sar7i. Yes, my bed, sir. Fm a pris'ner. I was 
arrested this here wery arternoon for debt. 

Mr. P. {^Falling back in his chair.) You ar- 
rested for debt ! 

Sam. Yes, for debt, sir ; and the man as put me 
in 'ull never let me out till you go yourself. 

Mr. P. Bless my heart and soul ! What do you 
mean } 

Sam. Wot I say, sir. If it's forty year to come, 
I shall be a pris'ner, and I'm very glad on it ; and if 
it had been Newgate, it would ha' been just the same. 
Now the murder's out, and hang it, there's an end 
on it. 

Mr, P. What's the name of your creditor, Sam ? 

Sam. I'd rayther not tell you, sir ! 

Mr. P. But wliy not, Sam? 

Sam. 'Taiil't o' no use, sir. He's a ma-licious, bad- 
disposed, vurldly-minded, spiteful, windictive creetur, 
vith a hard heart as there ain't no softnin, as the 
wirtuous clergyman remarked o' the old gen'l'm'n vith 
the dropsy, ven he said that upon the whole he thought 
he'd rayther leave his property to his vife than build 
a chapel vith it. 

Mr. P. But consider, Sam ; the sum is so small 
that it can very easily be paid. And having made up 
my mind that you shall stop with me, you should 
recollect how much more useful you would be, if you 
could go outside the walls. 

Sam. Wery much obliged to you, sir ; but I'd 
rayther not. 

Mr. P. Rather not do what, Sam t 



SCENES IN THE FLEET. 255 

Sam. Wy, sir, Td rayther not let myself down 
to ask a favor o' this here un-remorseful enemy. 

Mr. P. But it's no fjivor asking him to take his 
money, Sam. 

Sam. Beg your pardon, sir, but it would be a wery 
great favor to pay it, and he don't deserve none. That's 
were it is, sir. (Mr. P. looks vexed.) I takes my de- 
termination on principle, sir, and you takes yours on 
the same ground ; wich puts me in mind o' the man 
as killed his-self on principle ; wich, o' course, you've 
heerd on, sir. 

Mr. P. There is no " of course " in the case, Sam. 
(^Breaks into a smile.) The fame of the gentleman 
in question never reached my ears. 

Sam. No, sir? You astonish me, sir. He wos a 
a clerk in a gov'ment office, sir. 

Mr. P. Was he? 

Sam. Yes, he was, sir, and a wery pleasant gen'l'- 
rn'n, too — one o' the percise and tidy sort, as puts their 
feet in little India-rubber fire-buckets wen it's wet 
weather, and never has no other bosom friends but hare 
skins ; he saved his money on principle ; wore a clean 
shirt ev'ry day on principle ; never spoke to none of 
his relations on principle, fear they should want to 
borrow money of him ; and was altogether, in fact, an 
uncommon agreeable character. He had his hair cut 
on principle vunce a fortniglU, and contracted for his 
clothes on the economic principle — three suits a year, 
and send back the old 'uns. Veil, sir, one night he 
wos took wery ill ; sends for the doctor. Doctor comes 
in a green fly. *' Wot's the matter? " says the doctor. 
'" Wery ill," says the patient. "• Wot have you been 



256 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

a-eatin' on?" says the doctor. "Roast weal," says 
the patient. " Wot's the last thing you dewoured ? " 
says the doctor. " Crumpets," says the patient. 
" That's it," says the doctor. " I'll send you a box 
of pills directly, and don't you never take no more of 
'em," he says. " No more o' wot? " says the patient — 
" Pills? " " No ; crumpets," says the doctor. " Wy ! " 
says the patient, starting up in bed, " I've eat four 
crumpets ev'ry night, for fifteen year, on principle." 
" Well, then, you'd better leave 'em off on principle," 
says the doctor. " Crumpets is wholesome, sir," says 
the patient. " Crumpets is not wholesome, sir," says 
the doctor, wery fierce. " But they're so cheap," says 
the patient, comin' down a little, " and so wery fillin' 
at the price." " They'd be dear to you at any price ; 
dear if you wos paid to eat 'em," says the doctor. 
" Four crumpets a night," he says, " vill do your busi- 
ness in six months." " Are you sure o' that 'ere, sir? " 
says the patient. " I'll stake my professional reputa- 
tion on it," says the doctor. " How many crumpets at 
a sittin' do you think 'ud kill me off at once?" says the 
patient. " I don't know," says the doctor. " Do you 
think half a crown's wurth 'ud do it?" says the pa- 
tient. " I think it might," says the doctor. " Three 
shillins' wurth 'ud be sure to do it, I s'pose?" says the 
patient. " Certainly," says the doctor. " Wery good," 
says the patient ; " good night." Next mornin' he 
gets up, has a fire lit, orders in three shillins' wurth o' 
crumpets, toasts 'em all, eats 'em all, and blows his 
brains out. 

Mr. P. {Abruptly.) What did he do that for? 

Sa7n. Wot did he do it for, sir? Wy, in support 



SCENES IN THE FLEET. 2^^^ 

of his great principle, that crumpets wos wholesome, 
and to show that he wouldn't be put out of his way 
for nobody. {^Looks comically at AIr. P.) Well, 
sir, it's time for me to be lookin' arter that 'ere bed, 
sir. 

\_Exit Sam. Curtain, 
17 



258 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 



A Family Party. 

Scene: A Room in a Prison. Walls bare; at back^ 
c, a doo7^ ; r., anothej' door. The furniture con- 
sists of a small table and several wooden chairs^ 

Mr, Welter. (At c. d., calling off.) Weller ! 
Well-^r/ 

Sam. {^Entering hurriedly.) Wot are you a' roar- 
in' at? makin' yourself so precious hot that you look 
like a aggrawated glass-blower? Wot's the matter? 

Mr. W. Ah, ha ! I begun to be afeerd that you'd 
gone for a walk round the Regency Park, Sammy. 

Sam. Come, none o' them taunts agin the wictim 
o' avarice. Wot's the matter? 

Air. W. I've got sich a game for you, Sammy. 
( Chuckles immoderately .) 

Sam. Keep quiet, do. There never vos such a old 
picter card born. Wot are you bustin' vith now ? 

Mr. W. Sammy, I'm afeerd that one o' these days 
I shall laugh myself into a appleplexy, my boy. 

Sam. Veil then, wot do you do it for? Now, wot 
have you got to say ? 

Mr. W. Who do you think's come here with me, 
Samivel? 

Sam. Pell? {Is/in. V^. shakes his head.) Mottled- 
faced man, p'r'aps ? (Mr. W^. again shakes his head.) 
Who then ? 

Mr. W. {Sittings l. c.) Your mother-in-law ! 
Your mother-in-law, Sammy, and the red-nosed man, 
my boy ; and the red-nosed man. Ho ! ho 1 ho ! 



SCENES IN THE FLEET. 259 

(Sam £-rins ; Mr. W. wipes his eyes.) They've come 
to have a little ser'ous talk vith you, my boy. Don't 
let out nothin' about the unnat'ral creditor, Sammy. 

Sam. Wot, don't they know w^ho it is.^ 

Mr. W. Not a bit on it. 

Sam. {Siitino^^ c.) Vere are they? 

Air. W. In the snuggery. Catch the red-nosed 
man a-goin' anyvere but vere the liquors is ; not he, 
Samivel — not he. Ve'd a wery pleasant ride along 
the road from the Markis, this mornin', Sammy. I 
drove the old piebald in that 'ere little shaycart as be- 
longed to your mother-in-law's first wenter, into vich 
a harm-cheer wos lifted for the Shepherd ; and I'm 
blessed if they didn't bring a portable flight o' steps 
out into the road 'a front o' x)ur door for him to get up 
by. (Another Jit of laughter.) 

Sam. You don't mean that? 

Mr, W, I do mean that, Sammy ; and I vish you 
could a' seen how tight he held on by the sides wen 
he did get up, as if he wos afeerd o' bein' precipitayted 
down full six foot, and dashed into a million o' hatoms. 
He tumbled in at last, however, and avay ve vent ; and 
I rayther think — I say I rayther think, Samivel, — 
that he found hisself a little jolted ven we turned the 
corners. 

Sam. Wot ! I s'pose you happened to drive up 
agin a post or two? 

Mr. W. I'm afeerd {winking at S.), I'm afeerd 
I took vun or two on 'em, Sammy ; he wos a-flyin' out 
o' the harm-cheer all the way. ( Convulsed with laugh- 
ter. Skm goes to hi??z^ in alarm; W. recovers.) Don't 
be frightened, Sammy, don't be frightened ; it's only a 
kind o' quiet laugh as I'm a tryin' to come, Sammy. 



200 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

Sam. Well, if that's wot it is, you'd better not try 
to come it agin. . You'll find it rayther a dangerous 
inwention. i^Retui'ns to his seat,) 

Mr. W. Don't you like it, Sammy? 

Sam. Not at all. 

Mr. W. Well, it 'ud a been a wery great accommo- 
dation to me if I could a done it, and 'ud a saved a 
good many vurds atween your mother-in-law and me, 
sometimes ; but I'm afeerd you're right, Sammy : it's 
too much in the appleplexy line — a great deal too 
much, Samivel. 

Enter., r., Mrs. W., followed by Stiggins. Sam 
rises., and politely salutes Mrs. W. 

Sa7n. Mother-in-law, wery much obliged to you 
for this here wisit. Shepherd, how air you ? 

Mrs. W. (r. c.) O, Samuel ! This is dreadful. 

Sam. Not a bit on it, mum. Is it. Shepherd? 
(Mr. Stiggins, r., raises both hands., and rolls up 
his eyes.) Is this here gen'l'm'n troubled vith any 
painful complaint.^ 

Mrs. W. The good man is grieved to see you here, 
Samuel. 

Sam. O, that's it — is it? (Mrs. \^ , sits., r. c.) 
I was afeard, from his manner, that he might ha* for- 
gotten to take pepper vith that 'ere last cowcumber he 
eat. Set down, sir ; ve make no extra charge for the 
settin'-down, as the king remarked wen he blowed up 
his ministers. 

Stiggins. (^Ostentatiously.) Young man, I fear 
you are not softened by imprisonment. ( Crosses and 
sits., L.) 



SCENES IN THE FLEET. 261 

Sa7n. Beg your pardon, sir, wot was you gracious- 
ly pleased to hobserve? 

Stig. {In a loud voice) I apprehend, 3-oung man, 
that your nature is no softer for this chastening. ° 

Sam. Sir, you're wery kind to say so. I hope my 
natur is not a soft vun, sir. Wery much obliged to 
you for your good opinion, sir. 

[Mr. Weller, in the corner, l., behind 
Stiggins, checks hi7nself in a laugh 
Mrs. IK Weller! Weller! Come forth. 
Mr. W. Wery much obleeged to you, my dear, 
but I'm quite comfortable vere I am. 

[Mrs. W. bursts into tears. 

Sam. Wot's gone wrong, mum? 

Mrs. W. O, Samuel, your fother makes me 
wretched. Will nothing do him good? 

Sa??i. Do you hear this 'ere ? Lady vants to know 
vether nothin' 'ull do you good? 

Mr. W. Wery much indebted to Mrs. Weller for 

her po-lite inquiry, Sam. I think a pipe 'ud benefit 

me a good deal. Could I be accommodated, Sammy? 

[Mrs. W. weeps again; Stiggins groans. 

Sam. Hulioo! Here's this unfort'nit gen'l'm'n, 
took ill agin. Where do you feel it now, sir? 

Stig. In the same place, young man, in the same 
place. 

Sam. Where may that be, sir? 

Stig. In thebuzzim, young man. {Places his 
umbrella on his waistcoat. 

Sam. I'm afeerd that this 'ere gen'l'm'n, with the 
twist in his countenance, feels rayther thirsty, with the 
melanclioly spectacle afore him — is it the case, mum ? 
[Stiggins i?zti?nates by signs that he is thirsty. 



263 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

Mrs. W. {Mozirnfjilly.') I am afraid, Samuel, 
that his feelings have made him so, indeed. 

Sa?72, Wot's your usual tap, sir? 

St I or. O, mj^ dear young friend, all taps is vanities. 

Mrs. W. {Groa?zi?zg.) Too true, too true, indeed. 

Sam. Well I des-say they may be, sir ; but wich is 
your partik'ler wanity — vich wanity do you like the 
flavor on best, sir? 

Stig. O, my dear young friend, I despise them all. 
If — if there is any one of them less odious than anoth- 
er, it is the liquor called rum — v\^arm, my dear young 
friend, with three lumps of sugar to the tumbler. 
- Sam. Wery sorry to say, sir, that they don't allow 
that partik'ler wanity to be sold in this here establish- 
ment. 

Stig. O, the hardness of heart of these inveterate 
men ! O, the accursed cruelty of these inhuman perse- 
cutors ! ( Casts up his eyes and raps his breast zuith 
his it7nbrella.) A bottle of port then, warmed, with 
a little water, spice and sugar, if you please, my 
friend. 

[^S AM goes out., gives the order., and returns; 
Mrs. Weller a7td Stiggins look at Mr. 
W. and groan. 

Mr. W. Well, Sammy, I hope you'll find your 
spirits rose by this here lively wisit. Wery cheerful 
and improvin' conwersation — ain't it, Sammy? 

Sam. You're a reprobate, and I desire you won't 
address no more o' them ungraceful remarks to me. 
[Mr. Weller griiis; Mrs. VV^ and Stig- 
gins close their eyes and rock themselves 
to and fro. Mr. W. rises., comes for- 



SCENES IN THE FLEET. 263 

ward and performs a fantomime behind 

Stiggins, l. c, shaking his Jist very 7iear 

the latter' s head. The zvi7ie is bro7ight 

and put on table., c. Sam f lis a glass and 

carries it to Stiggins ; Stiggins opens 

his eyes with a starts a? id brings his 

head in contact with Mr. W.'s clijiched 

Jist. Stiggins rubs his head. 

Sa?n. {Stopping.) Wot are you a' reachin' out 

your hand for the tumbler in that 'ere savvage way for } 

Don't you see you've hit the gen'l'm'n ? 

Afr. VV. {Retreating.) I didn't go to do it, 
Sammy. 

Sam. {To Stiggins.) Try an in'ard appHcation, 
sir. Wot do you think o' that for a go o' wanity, 
warm, sir? 

[Stiggins tastes the wine^ and smacks his 
lips; puts his umbrella on the floor ^ and 
tastes again; passes his hand over his 
stomach., then drijtks the whole at a 
breath.^ aizd holds out the tumbler for 
more. A tuinbler is offered to Mrs. W., 
who protests that she Jicver touches a 
drop^ but is at last persuaded to try it ; 
she and Stiggins drazv up to the table 
and finish tJie bottle betzveen them. 
Mr. W, I'll tell you wot it is, Samivel, my boy, I 
think there must be somethin' wrong in your mother- 
in-law's inside, as veil as in that o' the reel-nosed man. 
Sani. Wot do you mean ? 

Mr W. I mean this 'ere, Sammy, that wot they 
drink don't seem no nourishment to 'em ; it all turns 



264 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

to warm water, and comes a pourin' out o' their eyes. 
'Pend upon it, Sammy, it's a constitootional infirmity. 
St/^: {^Risijtg and supporting hi7nself by one 
hand on the back of his chair ^ whilst he gesticzilates 
with the other.) My young friend, listen to a few words 
of counsel and wisdom from one who knows the world 
better than you. (Mrs. W. raises both hands and 
groans.) Be on your guard, I adjure you, in this sink 
of iniquity into which you are cast. {Staggers., but 
recovers hii7iself.) Abstain, my dear young friend, 
from all hypocrisy and pride of heart. Take, in all 
things, exact pattern and cop}^ from him who stands 
before you. Avoid, I conjure you, above all things, 
the vice of intoxication, and the use of those poisonous 
and baleful drugs which, being chewed in the mouth, 
filch — away — the — mem — o — ry — 

\_Clutches at the chair with both hands; 
leans over the back of it for some time., 
with one eye closed.^ and winking with 
the other at Sam. During the speech., 
Sam sits cross-legged on a chair., 11., 
with his arms on the top-rail., looking 
bla7idly at Stiggins. Mr. W., half 
asleep; Stiggins recovers his senses^ 
draws on his gloves., and sits down. 
Sam. Brayvo ! Wery pretty — wery pretty ! • 
Mrs. W. {Solemnly.) I hope it may do you good, 
Samuel. 

Sa?7i. I think it vill, mum. 

Airs. W. I wish I could hope that it would do 
your father good. 

Mr. IV. Thank'ee, my dear ; how do you find 
yourself arter it, my love? 



SCENES IN THE FLEET. 265 

Mrs. W, Scoffer! 

Stig. i^Recoveriitg and rising agai 71.^ Benighted 
man ! 

Air. W. If I don't get no better light than that 'ere 
moonshine, o' yourn, my worthy creetur, it's wery 
hkely as I shall continey to be a night-coach, till I'm 
took off- the road altogether. Now, Mrs. We, if the 
piebald stands at livery much longer, he'll stand at 
nothin' as we go back, and p'r'aps that 'ere harm-cheer 
'ull be tipped over into some hedge or another, with 
the Shepherd in it. 

Stig. (^Hastily taking his hat and umbrella J'rom 
the Jloor and starting for the door., r.) Let us de- 
part at once. 

[Stiggins and Mrs. W. go to the door., 
accompanied by Sam, who bids them 
farewell; Mr. W. goes to door and 
stops. 

Mr. W. A-do, Samivel. 

Sam. What's a-do? 

Mr. W. Well, good-by, then. 

Sa7n. O, that's what you're a-aimin' at — is it? 
Good-by ! 

Air. W. {^Looki7ig cautiously round and whisper- 
ing.^ Sammy, my duty to your Gov'ner, and tell him 
if he thinks better of this here bis'ness, to com-mooni- 
cate vith me. Me and a cab'net-maker has dewised a 
plan for gettin' him out. A planner, Samivel — a 
planner ! 

[ Taps Sam 07t the breast., a7td falls back a 
step or two. 

Sa7n. Wot do you mean ? 



266 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

Mr. W. {^Mysteriously.^ A pianner-forty, Sami- 
vel, as he can have on hire ; vun as von't phiy, Sammy. 

Sa772. And wot 'ud be the good o' that? 

Mr. W. Let him send to my friend, the cab'net- 
maker, to fetch it back, Sammy. Are you avake, 
now ? 

Sam. No ! 

Mr. W. {Siill whispering:) There ain't no vurks 
in it ! It 'ull hold him easy, vith his liat and shoes on, 
and breathe through the legs, vich is holler. Have a 

passage ready taken for . The gov'ment 

vill never give him up ven they find he's got money to 
spend, Sammy. Let the Gov'ner stop there till Mrs. 
Bardell's dead, or Mr. Dodson and Fogg's hung, vich 
last ewent I think is the most likely to happen first, 
Sammy. 

[Mr. W. salutes, and goes out hastily. 
Curtain. 



SCENES IN THE FLEET. 267 



Only a Matter of Form. 

Scene : Parlor in a Countr}^ Inn. r., a window; c, 
a door; l., ajiother door. Present,, Mrs. Bar- 
dell and Tommy ; Mrs. Sanders, and Mrs. 
Rogers. 

Mrs. Raddle, ( WitJiout.^ Aggrawatin* thing. 

Mr. R. ( Without.) My dear, it's not my fault. 

Mrs. R. Don't talk to me, you creetur, don't. O ! 
if ever a woman was troubled with a ruffi'nly creetur, 
that takes a pride and pleasure in disgracing his wife 
afore strangers, I am that woman ! 

Mrs. Cluppins. ( Without,) You ouglit to be 
ashamed of yourself. Raddle. 

Mr. R, What have I been a-doing of? 

Mrs. R. Don't talk to me, don't, you brute, for fear 
I should be perwoked to forgit my sect and strike you. 

Enter Mrs. Raddle, c. d., tottering,, with Mrs. 
Cluppins, and followed by Mr. R. 

Mrs, Rogers. Lauks, Mary Ann! What's the 

matter? 

Mrs. R. It's put me all over in such a tremble, 

Betsy. Raddle ain't like a man ; he leaves everythink 

to me. [Mrs. R. showing signs of faiiiting^ is 
carried to the sofa and restoratives are 
brought; Mrs. Rogers holds her tight 
round the neck and applies the sal vola- 
tile bottle to her nose. 

( Gasping.) That'll do ! I'm better now. 



268 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

Mrs. Rogers. Ah, poor thing ! I know what her 
feeHn's is, too well. 

Mrs. S. Ah, poor thing ! So do I. 

Mrs. B. And so do I. And I pity her from the 
bottom of my heart. ( To Mrs. Rad.) But what's 
been the matter? 

Mrs. Rogers. Ah, what has decomposed you, 
ma'am ? 

Airs. Rad. (^Reproachfully.^ I have been a good 
deal flurried. (^Ladies look indigfiantly at Mr. R.) 

Mr. R. {Stepping forward.) Why, the fact is, 
when we alighted at the door, a dispute arose with the 
driver of the cabrioily — 

[Mrs. R. gives a scream and appears to be 
foiiiting again. 

Mrs. C. You'd better leave us to bring her round, 
Raddle. She'll never get better as long as you're 
here. 

Ladies. Yes, go, Mr. Raddle, go ! 

\_Exit Raddle. They again restore Mrs. R. 

Mrs. B. ( Going to door L.) You may come in, 
now, Mr. Raddle. {Enter Raddle ; Mrs. B. and 
Mr. R. stand jzear door.) You must be very 
careful now, Mr. Raddle, how you behave towards 
your wife. I know you don't mean to be unkind ; 
but Mary Ann is very far from strong, and if you 
don't take care, you may lose her when you least ex- 
pect. (Mr. R. sits 7neekly at l.) Why, Mrs. Ro- 
gers, ma'am, you've never been introduced, I declare ! 
Mr. Raddle, ma'am ; (R. rises and bows.) Mrs. 
Cluppins, ma'am ; Mrs. Raddle, ma'am. (Mrs. Rad- 
dle smiles sweetly.) 



SCENES IN THE FLEET. 2bg 

Mi'S. S. Which is Mrs. Cluppins's sister. 

Mrs. Roge7's. ( Graciously.^ O, indeed ! 

Mrs. C. I'm sure I'm very happy to have a oppor- 
tunity of being known to a lady which I have heerd 
so much in faviour of, as Mrs. Rogers — 

Mrs. Rogers. (^Bowing graciously.') Thank you, 
Mrs. Cluppins. 

Mrs. B. Well, Mr. Raddle, I'm sure you ought to 
feel very much honored at you and Tommy bein' the 
only gentlemen to escort so many ladies all the 
way here. Don't you think he ought, Mrs. Rogers, 
ma'am } 

Mrs. Rogers. O, certainly, ma'am ! 

All. O, certainly ! 

Mr. Raddle. Of course I feel it, ma'am. {Riib- 
bing his hands and brightenijtg up.) Indeed, to 
tell you the truth, I said, as we were coming along in 
the cabrioily — 

[Mrs. R. screams and puts her handker- 
chief to her eyes. 

Mrs. B. {^Fr owning.) There, Mr. Raddle, you 
had better not say any more. Ring, and order tea. 

[Mr. R. rings. Enter waiter^ C. D. 

Air. R. ( To waiter.) Tea for seven. 

\_Exit waiter. 

Mrs. R. {Snappishly.) The extravagance of the 
man ! What could have been easier than for Tommy to 
drink out of anybody's cup, or everybody's, if that's 
all, when the waiter wasn't looking, which would have 
saved one head of tea, and the tea just as good } 



270 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

E7tter waiter ivith a tea-tray containi7ig cups and 
saucers^ tea-pot^ dcc.^ and bread and butter. Mrs. 
B. is voted i7ito the chair ; Mrs. Rogers sits at 
her right; Mrs. Raddle at her left ; next to Mrs. 
Raddle, Mrs. C. ; next Mrs. S., Tommy, a^zd Mr. 
Raddle. Mrs. Bardell fours out tea; gejieral 
conversatio7i e7isues, 

Mrs, Rogers. {Sighi7zg.) How sweet the coun- 
try is, to be sure ! I almost wish I lived in it always. 

Mrs. B. (^Hastily.') O, you wouldn't like that, 
ma'am. You wouldn't like it, ma'am. 

Mrs. C. O, I should think you was a deal too live- 
ly and sought after, to be content with the country, 
ma'am. 

Mrs. Rogers. Perhaps I am, ma'am. (^Sighs.) 
Perhaps I am. 

Mr. Raddle. {Cheeri7zg up.) For lone people 
as have nobody to care for them, or take care of them, 
or as have been hurt in their mind, or that kind of 
thing {looking rou7id), the country is all very well. 
The country for a wounded spirit, they say. 

Mrs. B. {Burst i72g i72to tears.) O, take me 
away ! Take me away at once ! 

[Tommy B. begi7is to boo-hoo. They lead Mrs. 
B. aivay fro77i the table to the sofa., R. 

Mrs. Raddle. {Fiercely to Mrs. Rogers.) Would 
anybody believe, ma'am, that a woman could be mar- 
ried to such a unmanly creetur, which can tamper 
with a woman's feelings, as he does every hour in 
the day, ma'am? 

Mr. R. My dear, I didn't mean anything, my dear. 



SCENES IN THE FLEET. 27I 

Mrs. R. (Scornfully.^ You didn't mean! Go 
away ! I can't bear the sight on you, you brute. 

Mrs. C. You must not flurry yourself, Mary Ann. 
You really must consider yourself, my dear, which you 
never do. Now go away. Raddle ; there's a good 
soul, or you'll only aggravate her. 

Mrs. Rogers. {Apply mg smelling bottle to Mrs. 
R.'s 7iose.^ You had better take your tea by yourself, 
sir, indeed. 

Mrs. S. {At table.) I think so, too, Mr. Raddle. 

[Mr. R. qtiietly retires. Mrs. Barbell 

hugs Tommy and cries over him; the 

other ladies resu?ne their places at table. 

Mrs. B. {Recovering.) I wonder, ladies, how I 

could have been so foolish ! 

\_Takes her seat at table., and pours out 
more tea. The souitd of wheels is heard. 
Ladies rise and go to window at R. 
Mrs. S. More company ! 
Afrs. Raddle. It's a gentleman. 
Mrs. B. Well, if it ain't Mr. Jackson, the young 
man from Dodson & Fogg's ! Why, gracious ! Sure- 
ly Mr. Pickwick can't have paid the damages ! 
Mrs. C. Or hoffered marriage ! 
Mrs. Rogers. Dear me, how slow the gentleman 
is ! Why doesn't he make haste .'* 

^;2/^r Jackson, c. d. 

Mrs. B. {Eagerly.) Is anything the matter? Has 
anything taken place, Mr. Jackson ? 

Air. facksoji. Nothing whatever, ma'am. How 
de do, ladies? I have to ask pardon, ladies, for in- 



272 DIALOGUES FROM PICKENS. 

truding ; but the law, ladies, — the law. (^Smiles and 
bows.) 

Mrs. Rogers. {Aside to Mrs. Raddle.) Really, 
Mrs. Raddle, he is an elegant young man ! 

Mr. y. I called in Goswell Street, and learning that 
you were here, took a coach and came on. Our peo- 
ple want you down in the city directly, Mrs. Bardell. 

Mrs. B. {Starting-.) Lor! 

Mr. y. Yes. It's very important and pressing 
business, which can't be postponed on any account. I 
have kept the coach on purpose for you to go back in. 

Mrs. B. How very sti-ange ! 

All. It is very strange ! 

Mrs. Raddle. But it must be very important, or 
Dodson & Fogg would never have sent ; and you ought 
to go at once, Mrs. Bardell. 

Mrs. B. {Simpering.) It's very vexatious, I'm 
sure. I don't know wliether to go or not. 

Mrs. C. You had better go, by all means. 

Mrs. B. Well, I suppose I must. {Persuasively.) 
But won't you refresh yourself before going, Mr. Jack- 
son? 

Mr. y. Why, really, Mrs. Bardell — 

Mrs. B, Sit down,. Mr. Jackson. 

l^Ue sits, and Mrs. B. brings him some " re- 
freshinent.'^ 

Mr. y. {Sipping.) Sad thing about these costs 
of our people's — ain't it? Your bill of costs, I mean. 

Mrs. B. I'm very sorry they can't get them ; but 
if you law-gentlemen do these things on speculation, 
why, you must get a loss now and then, you know. 

Mr. y. You gave them a cognovit for the amount 
of your costs, after the trial, I am told. 



SCENES IN THE FLEET. 273 

Mrs. B. Yes, just as a matter of form. 
Mr. y. {Dryly.) Certainly. Qiiite a matter of 
form. {Fi7iishes his glass.) Quite. But there ain't 
much time to lose, ma'am, and I've got a friend out- 
side — 

Mrs. B. O, ask your friend to come in, sir. Pray 
ask him to come in, sir. 

Mr. y. {Embarrassed^ Why, thank'ee. I'd 
rather not. He's not much used to ladies' society, and 
it makes him bashful. If you'll order the waiter to 
deliver him anything short, he won't drink it off at 
once — won't he! Only try him! (Mrs. B. sends 
servant out to J.'s friend; they all '*■ take some- 
thing.^') I'm afraid it's time to go, ladies. 

\^All rise; Mrs. B. and Tommy, Mrs. C, 
Mrs. S. and Mr. J. go towards c. d. 

[ Curtain. 
18 



274 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 



" All Right and Tight." 

Scene : The Lodge of " The Fleet." Present, Mr. 
Pickwick and Sam Weller, with other prisoners. 
Enter, r., co7istable, cai-rying a stout stick. 

Constable. {^Holding the door open^ Come in, 
ladies. 

Enter Mrs. Bardell, leanijzg on Mr. Jackson's 
arm, and leading Tommy ; Mrs. Sanders and the 
rest oj" the party follow. 

Mrs. B. {Stoppiizg.) What place is this? 

Mr. y. {Iltirryiftg her on.) Only one of our 
public offices, ma'am. {Looks around to see that 
the others are following.) Look sharp, Isaac. 

Isaac. ( Closing door.) Safe and sound. 

Mr. y. {Looking exultaiitly round.) Here we 
are, at last. All right and tight, Mrs. Bardell ! 

Mrs. B. {^Alarmed.) What do you mean? 

Mr. y. {Drazving her to one side.) Just this, — 
don't be frightened, Mrs. Bardell, — there never was a 
more delicate man than Dodson, ma'am, or a more 
humane man than Fogg. It was their dut}^, in the 
way of business, to take you in execution for them 
costs ; but they were anxious to spare your feelings as 
much as they could. What a comfort it must be to 
you to think how it's been done ! This is the Fleet, 
ma'am. Wish you good day, Mrs. Bardell. Good 
day, Tommy ! 

[Exeunt Jackson and Isaac. Mrs. B. 
foints ; Tommy roars; Mr. P. ttirns 



SCENES IN THE FLEET. 275 

away and exit; Sam, leamno- against 
the ivall^ mockingly takes off his hat. 

Turnkey. (Zb Sam.) Don't bother the woman ; 
she's just come in. 

Sam. {Putting on his hat quickly.) A pris'ner ! 
Who's the plaintives .'^ What for.^ Speak up, old 
feller. 

Tu7'7tkey. Dodson & Fogg. Execution on cognovit 
for costs. 

Sam. {Rushing to door^ l., a7zd calling off.) 
Here, Job, Job ! 

Job. ( Without.) Ay, ay ! 

Sam. Run to Mr. Perker's, Job. /want him di- 
rectly ; I see some good in this. Here's a game. 
Hooray ! Were's the gov'nor .? 

\^Exit Sam. Curtain. 



276 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 



A General Settlement.* 

Scene: Mr. Pickwick's Room in "The Fleet." 
Present^ Mr. P. and Sam. A. knock is heard. 

Sam. ( Opening c. d., and announcing the visit- 
or^ Mr. Perker, sir. ( To Mr. Perker, who enters^ 
Wery glad you've looked in accidentally, sir. I rayther 
think the gov'nor wants to have a vord and a half w^itli 
you, sir. (Mr. Perker nods to Sam, to show that 
he understands., and beckoniitg to him., whispers in 
his ear ; Sam starts back iii surprise.^ You don't 
mean that 'ere, sir? 

[Mr. Perker nods aiid smiles ; Sam looks 
at him^ then at Mr. Pickwick, then at 
the ceili7tg; laughs heartily^ catches up 
his hat from the carpet and goes off.^ 
c. D. 
Mr, Pickwick. {Looking at Perker in astonish- 
ment^ What does- this mean.'' What has put Sam 
into this most extraordinary state? 

Air. Perker. O, nothing, nothing. Come, my 
dear sir, draw up your chair to the table. I have a 
good deal to say to you. 

* This may be used with other Scenes, as follows : — 
An Epoch in Mr. Pickwick's Life. . Vol. I. p. 10. 



The Trial 

Sam Weller as a Witness. 
Only a Matter of Form. 
All Right and Tight. 
A General Settlement. 



II. 



53 

60 
267 
274 

276 



SCENES IN THE FLEET. 277 

[ Takes out a bundle of papers tied with red 
tape^ and places it on the table^ c. 

Mr. Pick. What papers are those ? 

Air. Perk. ( Uiidoiizg the knot with his teeth.) 
The papers in Bardell and Pickwick. (Mr. Pick- 
wick 7^2/5/2^5- away his chair .^ throws himself back in 
it., folds his arms., ajid looks sternly at Mr. Perker.) 
You don't like to hear the name of the cause? 

Mr. Pick. No, I do not, indeed. 

Mr. Perk. Sorry for that, because it will form the 
suHject of our conversation. 

Mr. Pick. {Hastily.) I would rather that the 
subject should be never mentioned between us, 
Perker. 

Mr. Perk. Pooh, pooh, my dear sir, it must be men- 
tioned. I have come here on purpose. Now, are you 
ready to hear what I have to say, my dear sir.? No 
hurry ; if you are not, I can wait. I have the morn- 
ing's papers here. Your time shall be mine. There ! 
\_Throws hifnself back in his chair ^ l. of 
table., and makes a show of reading. 

Mr. Pick. {Drawing chair to ^. of table.) Well, 
well. Say what you have to say ; it's the old story, I 
suppose ? 

Mr. Perk. {Folding the paper., slowly., a7id put- 
ting it in his pocket.) With a difference, my dear 
sir ; with a difference. Mrs. Bardell, the plaintiff in 
the action, is within these walls, sir. 

Mr. Pick. I know it. 

Mr. Perk. Very good. And you know how she 
comes here, I suppose ; I mean on what grounds, and 
at whose suit? 



2^8 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

Mr. Pick. ( Carelessly >^ Yes ; at least I have 
heard Sam's account of the matter. 

Mr. Perk. Sam's account of the matter is, I Wi!l 
venture to say, a perfectl}^ correct one. Well, now, 
my dear sir, the first question I have to ask is, whether 
this woman is to remain here? 

Mr. Pick. To remain here ! (Mr. Perker 
leans back and looks steadily at hiin.^ To re- 
main here, my dear sir! How can you ask me? 
It rests with Dodson & Fogg ; you know that very 
well. 

Mr. Perk, {Pir?7ily.) I know nothing of the kind. 
It does not rest with Dodson & Fogg ; you know the 
men, my dear sir, as well as I do. It rests solely, 
wholly, and entirely with you. 

Air. Pick. {^Rising nervously and sitting again.) 
With me } 

Mr. Perk. (^Rapping his snuff-box., opening it^ 
taking a pinch oj" snuff ^ and closing it again.) With 
you. I say, my dear sir, that her speedy liberation or 
perpetual imprisonment rests with you, and with you 
alone. Hear me out, if you please, and do not be so 
very energetic, for it will only put you into a perspira- 
tion, and do no good whatever. I say that nobody but 
you can rescue her from this den of wretchedness ; 
and that you can only do that, by paying the costs of 
this suit — both of plaintiff and defendant — into the 
hands of those sharks, Dodson & Fogg. (Mr. Pick- 
wick appears very indignant.) Now, pray be quiet, 
my dear sir. I have seen the woman this morning. 
By paying the costs, you can obtain a full release and 
discharge from the damages ; and further, a voluntary 



SCENES IN THE FLEET. 279 

statement, under her hand, in the form of a letter to me, 
that this business was, from the very first, fomented, and 
encouraged, and brought about, by these men, Dadson 
& Fogg; that she deeply regrets ever having been the 
instrument of anno3^ance or injury to you ; and that she 
entreats me to intercede with you, and implore your 
pardon. 

Mr. Pick. (^Indignantly^ If I pay her costs for 
her. A valuable document, indeed ! 

Mr. Perk. (^Triumphantly.^ No " //"" in the 
case, my dear sir. There is the letter {takes it 
jfrom the bundle- and lays it before Mr. P.) I speak 
of. Brought to my ofRce, by another woman, at nine 
o'clock this morning, before I had set foot in this place, 
or held any communication with Mrs. Bardell, upon 
my honor. 

Mr. Pick. (^Mildly.) Is this all you have to say 
to me.? 

Mr. Perk. Not quite. You have now an oppor- 
tunity, on easy terms, of placing yourself in a much 
higher position than you ever could by remaining here ; 
which would only be reputed by people who didn't 
know you, to sheer, dogged, wrong-headed, brutal ob- 
stinacy. Can you hesitate to avail yourself of it, when 
it restores, you to your friends, your old pursuits, your 
health and your amusements ; when it liberates your 
faithful and attached servant, and above all, when it 
enables you to take the very magnanimous revenge 
of releasing this woman from the scene of misery to 
which she has been consigned.? Now, I ask you, my 
dear sir, will you let slip the occasion of attaining all 
these objects, and doing all this good, for the paltry con- 



28o DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

sideration of a few pounds finding their wa}^ into the 
pockets of a couple of rascals ? Think of this, my dear 
sir ; turn it over in your mind as long as you please ; 
I wait most patiently for your answer. 

[Mr. Perker takes snuff; Mr. Pickwick 
is about to reply when a knock is heard,, 

CD. 

Mr. Pick. Dear, dear, what an annoyance that 
door is ! Who is that ? 

Sam. {Putting- in his head.) Me, sir ! 

]\'Ir. Pick. I can't speak to you just now, Sam. I 
am engaged at this moment, Sam. 

Sam. Beg your pardon, sir. But here's a lady 
here, sir, as says she's somethin' wery partickler to 
disclose. 

Afr. Pick. I can't see any lady. 

Sam. {Shaking his head.) I vouldn't make too 
sure o' that, sir. If you know'd who was near, sir, I 
rayther think you'd change your note ; as the hawk 
remarked to himself ven he heerd the robin red-breast 
a-singin' round the corner. 

Mr. Pick. Who is it? 

Sam. {Holding- the door.) Will you see her, sir? 

Mr, Pick. {Looking at Perker.) I suppose I 
must. 

Sam. Well, then, all in, to begin ! Sound the 
gong, draw up the cCirtain, and enter the two con- 
spirators. 

\^Throws open the door ; Mr. Winkle hur- 
ries in., leading a lady., who is dressed 
as a bride; her maid follows. 

Mr. Pick. {Risi?ig.) Miss Arabella Allen ! 



SCENES IN THE FLEET. 281 

Mr. Winkle. {^Dropping on his knees ^ No ; 
Mrs. Winkle. Pardop, my dear friend, pardon.* 

[Mr. Pickwick gqzes arouiid him in si- 
lence; Sam surveys the sceize with satis- 
faction. 
Mrs. Win. {In a low voice.) O, Mr. Pickwick, 
can you forgive my imprudence.'* 

[Mr. p. hastily removes his spectacles., seizes 

her by both hands., and kisses her several 

times; then holding one of her hands., 

he extends the other to Mr. Winkle. 

Mr. Pick. Winkle, you're an audacious young 

dog — get up. (Mr. W. rises; Mr. P. slaps hiin on 

the back ; then shakes hands with Mr. Perker ; the 

latter salutes Mrs. W. a7id the maid; shakes ha?zds 

heartily with Mr. W., and takes a prodigious pinch 

of S7iuff.) Why, my dear girl, how has all this come 

about? Come, sit down, and let me hear it all. How 

v/ell she looks, doesn't she, Perker.? 

Mr. Perk. Delightful, my dear sir. {To Winkle.) 
If I were not a married man myself, I should be dis- 
posed to envy you, 3'ou dog. 

\_Punches W. in the ribs ; W. returns it ; 

all laugh heartily ; Sam, i7t the back- 

grozcnd^ kisses Mary, and joins in the 

laugh. 

Mrs. W. ( Turni72g.) I can never be grateful 

enough to you, Sam, I am sure. I shall not forget 

your exertions in the garden at Clifton. 

* Mr. Perker, l. c. ; Mr. Pickwick, r. ; Mr. Winkle, 
kneeling to him; Mrs. Winkle, r. c. ; Sam and Mary up 
the stacje, c. 



382 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

Sam, Don't say nothin' wotever about it, ma'am. 
I only assisted natur', ma'am, as the doctor said to the 
boy's mother, arter he'd bled him to death. 

Mr. Pick. {To Mrs. W.) Sit down, my dear. 
( T/iey sit.^ R. c.) Now then, — how long have you 
been married, eh.? (Mrs. W. looks bashfully at 
Mr. W.) 

M?'. W. Only three days. 

Mr. Pick. Only three days, eh ? Why, what have 
you been doing these three months ? 

Mr. Perk. Ah, to be sure ! Come ! Account for 
this idleness. You see Pickwick's only astonishment 
is, that it wasn't all over months ago. 

Mr. W. {Looki7ig at Mrs. W.) Why, the fact is 
that I could not persuade Bella to run away, for a long 
time ; and when I had persuaded her, it was a long 
time more before we could find an opportunity. Mary 
had to give a month's warning, too, before she could 
leave the place next door, and we couldn't possibly 
have done it without her assistance. 

Mr. Pick. {Putting 07i his spectacles a?zd looking 
from one to the other.) Upon my word ! You seem 
to have been very systematic in your proceedings. 
And is your brother acquainted with all this, my 
dear? 

Mrs. W. O, no, no. Dear Mr. Pickwick, he must 
only know it from you — from your lips alone. He is 
so violent, so prejudiced, that I fear the consequences 
dreadfully. 

]\Ir. Perk. ( Gravely.) Ah, to be sure. You must 
take this matter in hand for- them, my dear sir. You 
must prevent mischief, my dear sir. Hot blood — hot 
blood. 



SCENES IN THE FLEET. 283 

\^Shakes his head doubtfully and takes smiff. 
Mr. Pick. ( Gently.) You forget, my love, that I 
am a prisoner. 

Mrs. W. No, indeed, I do not, my dear sir. I 
never have forgotten it. I have never ceased to 
think how great your sufferings must have been in 
this shocking place ; but I hoped that what no con- 
sideration for yourself would induce you to do, a re- 
gard to our happiness might. If my brother hears of 
this, first, from you, I feel certain we shall be recon- 
ciled. He is my only relation in the world, Mr. Pick- 
wick, and unless you plead for me, I fear I have lost 
even him. I have done wrong, very, very wrong, I 
know. 

[ Weeps. Mr. P. rises a?id walks nervous- 
ly about., takes off his spectacles and 
rubs them^ scratches his head., dc. 
Mr. Perk. Another reason, my dear sir, for acceding 
to the proposition which I just made to you. Leave 
this place, Mr. Pickwick, as soon as you can, go down 
to Mrs. Winkle's brother and acquaint him by word 
of mouth with the whole circumstances of the case. 
Come, my dear sir, say you v/ill. 

\_All crowd around aiid urge Mr. Pickwick. 
Air. Pick. Well, well, I consent. {Turns and 
catches Mrs. W. iii his arms.) I don't know how it 
is, my dear, but I have always been very fond of you 
from the first, and I can't find it in my heart to stand 
in the way of your happiness ; do what you please 
w^ith me — (^A succession of very loud raps at the 
door., c.) 

Mr. Perk. Dear me, what's that? 



284 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

Mr. Pick. I think it is a knock at the door. {Afore 
raps^ very loud and without cessation.') Dear me ! 
Sam, don't you hear a knock? {Afore raps^ and 
louder^ 

Sam, Ay, ay, sir. {Goes towards door; raps 
continue.) 

Afr. Pick. {Stoppiiig his ears.) It's quite dread- 
ful. (Z^Mrs. W.) Leave us a moment, my dear ; 
and you too, Winkle. ( They go out., r.) Make haste, 
Sam ; we shall have the panels beaten in. 

[Sam hurries to door., c, and throws it wide 

open; an enormously fat boy., dressed 

as serva7zt^ stands before the door., with 

his eyes shut. 

Sam. Wot's the matter? (Boy 7tods once^ and 

snores feebly.) Where do you come from? (Boy 

motionless., breathi7ig heavily.) I say ! Where do 

you come from? {No answer ; Sam is about to close 

the door., when the Boy opens his eyes., winks several 

ti77ies., sneezes., and raises his hand as if to rap 

agai72 ; finding the door open^ he gazes about hi77i^ 

and at last fixes his eyes on Sam.) What the devil do 

you knock in that way for? 

Boy. {Slowly and sleepily.) What way? 
Sam. Why, like forty hackney-coachmen. 
Boy. Because master said, I wasn't to leave off 
knocking till they opened the door, for fear I should 
go to sleep. 

Sam. Well, wot message have you brought? 
Boy. He's down stairs. 
Sam. Who? 

Boy. Master. He wants to know whether you're 
at home. 



SCENES IN THE FLEET. 2S5 

Sam. {Stepping to window, l., looking out, and 
beckoning to somebody below.) That's your master 
in the carriage, I suppose ? 

[Boy nods; enter Mr. Wardee hastily; he 
passes Sam and co?nes down the stage. 
Exit Sam, c. d. The Boy enters, and 
standing, r. u. u., goes to sleep. 

Mr. Wardle. Pickwick ! Your hand, my boy ! 
Why have I never heard until the day before yester- 
day of your suffering yourself to be cooped up here.? 
{Looking about him.) And why did you let him do 
it, Perker? 

Mr. Perk. ( S?niliizg and taki7zg snuff. ) I couldn't 
help it, my dear sir. You know how obstinate he is. 

Mr. War. Of course I do, of course I do. I am 
heartily glad to see him, notwithstanding. I will not 
lose sight of him again, in a hurry. {Shakes Mr. 
Pickwick heartily by the hand, and then Mr. Per- 
ker, a7id throws himself into a chair.*) Well, here 
are pretty goings on — a pinch of snuff^, Perker, my 
boy — never were such times, eh.? 

Mr. Pick. What do you mean .? 

Mr. War. Mean ! Why, I think the girls are all 
running mad ; that's no news, you'll say ? perhaps it's 
not ; but it's trwe, for all that. 

Mr. Perk. You have not come all this distance to 
tell us that, my dear sir — have you .? 

Mr. War. No, not altogether ; though it was the 
main cause of my coming. How's Arabella? 

* The following, as far as Enter Dodson & Fogg, may 
be omitted, if the dialogue should appear to be too long. 



286 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

Mr. Pick. Very well, and not very far off. She'll 
be delighted to see you, I am sure. 

Mr. War. Black-eyed little jilt! I had a great 
idea of marrying her myself, one of these odd days. 
But I am glad of it, too — very glad. 

Mr. Pick. How did the intelligence reach you ? 

Mr. War. O, it came to my girls, of course. Ara- 
bella wrote that she had made a stolen match w^ithout 
her husband's father's consent, and that she intended to 
ask you to go down to get it when his refusing it couldn't 
IDrevent the match, and all the rest of it. I thought it 
a very good time to say something serious to wj/ girls ; 
so I said what a dreadful thing it was that children 
should marry without their parents' consent, and so 
forth ; but, bless your hearts, I couldn't make the least 
impression upon them. They thought it such a much 
more dreadful thing that there should have been a 
wedding without bridesmaids, that I might as well 
have preached to my boy Joe, there. (^Laughs long 
and heartily^ But this is not the best of it, it 
seems. This is only half the love-making and plotting 
that have been going forward. We have been walk- 
ing on mines for the last six months, and they've sprung 
at last. 

Mr. Pick. {Starfyg.) What do you mean? No 
other secret marriage, I hope.^* 

Mr. War. No, no ; not so bad as that — no. 

Air. Pick. What then? Am /interested in it? 

Air. War. Yes, you are. 

Mr. Pick. {Anxiously.) How? In what way? 

Air. War. Reall}-, you're such a fier}^ sort of young 
fellow, that I am almost afraid to tell you ; but, however, 



SCENES IN THE FLEET. 2S7 

if Perker will sit between us to prevent mischief, I'll 
venture. Another pinch of snuff, Perker, if you please. 
The fact is, that my daughter Bella — Bella, that mar- 
ried young Trundle, you know — 

Mr. Pick. (^Impatiently.) Yes, ves, we know. 

Ml'. War. Don't alarm me at the very beginning. 
My daughter Bella — Emily having gone to bed with 
a headache, after she had read Arabella's letter to me, 
— sat herself down by my side, and began to talk 
over this marriage affair. " Well, pa," she says, 
"what do you think of it?" "Why, my dear," I 
said, " I suppose it's all very well ; I hope it's for the 
best." " It's quite a marriage of affection, pa," said 
Bella, after a short silence. " Yes, my dear," said I, 
" but such marriages do not always turn out the hap- 
piest." 

Mr. Pick. ( Warmly.) I question that. 

Mr. War. Very good ; question anything you like 
when it's your turn to speak, but don't interrupt me. 

Mr. Pick. I beg your pardon. 

Mr. War. Granted. "lam sorry to hear you ex- 
press your opinion against marriages of affection, pa," 
said Bella, coloring a little. " I was wrong ; I ought 
not to have said so, my dear, either," said I, patting 
her cheek as kindly as a rough old fellow like me 
could pat it, " for your mother's was one, and so was 
yours." " It's not that I meant, pa," said Bella. " The 
fact is, pa, I wanted to speak to you about Emily." 
(Mr. Pickwick starts.) What's the matter now.? 

Mr. Pifk.. Nothing. Pray go on. 

Mr. War. (^Abruptly.) I never could spin out a 
story. It must come out, sooner or later. The long 



288 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

and short of it is, that Bella at last mustered up cour- 
age to tell me that Emily was very unhappy ; that she 
and your young friend Snodgrass had been in constant 
correspondence and communication ever since last 
Christmas ; that she had very dutifully made up her 
mind to run away with him ; but that, having some 
compunctions of conscience on the subject, they had 
thought it better to pay me the compliment of asking 
whether I would have any objection to their being mar- 
ried in the usual matter-of-fact manner. There, now 
{testily)^ Mr. Pickwick, if you can make it convenient 
to reduce your eyes to their usual size again, and to let 
me hear what you think we ought to do, I shall feel 
rather obliged to you. 

Mr. Pick. (^Muttering to himself.) Snodgrass ! — 
since last Christmas ! 

Mr. War. Since last Christmas ; that's plain 
enough, and very bad spectacles we must have worn 
not to have discovered it before. 

Mr. Pick. (^Ruminating.) I don't understand it. 
I really cannot understand it. 

Mr. War. It's easy enough to understand. If you 
had been a younger man, you would have been in the 
secret long ago. Now, the question is, what's to be 
done? 

Mr. Pick. What have you done } 

Mr. War. I! 

Mr. Pick. I mean what did you do when your 
married daughter told you this ? 

Mr. War. O, I made a fool of myself, of course. 

Mr. Perk. {Impatiently.) Just so. That's very 
natural ; but how ? 



SCENES IN THE FLEET. 289 

JSIr. War, I went into a great passion, and fright- 
ened iny mother into a fit. 

Mr, Perk. That was judicious ; and what else? 

Mr. War. I fretted and fumed all next day, and 
raised a great disturbance. At last I hired a carriage 
at Muggleton, and, putting my own horses to it, 
came up to town, under pretence of bringing Emily to 
see Arabella. 

Mr. Pick, Miss Wardle is with you, then? 

Mr. War. To be sure she is. She is at Osborne's 
Hotel in the Adelphi, at this moment, unless your 
enterprising friend has run away with her since I came 
out this morning. 

Mr. Perk. You are reconciled, then? 

Mr. War. Not a bit of it. She has been crying 
and moping ever since, except last evening, when she 
made a great parade of writing a letter, that I prC' 
tended to take no notice of. 

Mr. Perk. ( Takiizg snuffs and lookiitg from one 
to the other.) You want my advice in this matter, I 
suppose ? 

Mr. War, (^Looking at Mr. Pickwick,) I sup- 
pose so. 

Mr, Pick. Certainly. 

Mr. Perk. (^Rising and pushing his chair back.) 
Well, then, my advice is, that you both dine together 
to-day, — Mr, Pickwick will be free before dinner- 
time, — and talk this matter over between you. If you 
have not settled it by the next time I see you, Pll tell 
you what to do, ' 

Mr, W. (^ Half offended.) This is satisfactory ! 

Mr. Perk. Pooh, pooh, my dear sir. I know you 
19 



290 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

both a great deal better than you know yourselves. 
You have settled it already, to all intents and purposes. 
(yPokcs Mr. War. and then Mr. Pick, in the waist- 
coat with his s7iuff'box; all three laugh and shake 
hands.) Now go, Mr. Wardle, for I'm tired of you ; 
and, moreover, I have business to finish with Mr. Pick- 
wick. 

Mr. War. Very well. {Rises.) Good morning ! 
Good morning, Mr. Pickwick. I shall expect you at 
Osborne's at five. Nov^, Joe ! 

[Joe, zuho has been asleep at r. u. e., wakes 
after being thoroughly shaken., and ex- 
eunt Mr. W. a7id Joe, c. d. Mr. Pick- 
wick and^Vi. Perker sit at the table., 
and begin to examiiie papers^ when 
another knock is heard., c. D. 
,Mr. Perk. Come in ! (Sam enters., and closes the 
door mysteriously.) What's the matter? 
Sajn. You're wanted, sir. 

Mr. Perl?. Who wants me? (Sam looks «/ Mr. 
P. and coughs.) Who wants me? Can't you 
speak ? 

Sa7n. {Aizgrily.) Why, it's that rascal Dodson ; 
and Fogg is with him. 

Air. Perk. Bless my life? Is it as late as that? 
{Looks at his watch.) I appointed them to be here 
at half past eleven, to settle up this matter of yours, 
Mr. Pickwick ; and they're come. Would you like to 
step into the next room ? 

Mr. Pick. No, Perker, I will remain where I 
am. {Indignantly.) Dodson & Fogg ought to be 
ashamed to look me in the face, instead of my being 
ashamed to see them. 



SCENES IN THE FLEET. 29I 

Mr. Perk. Very well, my dear sir, very well. I 
can only say, that, if you expect either Dodson or 
Fotrg to exhibit any symptom of shame or confusion 
at having to look you, or anybody else, in the face, you 
are the most sanguine man in your expectations that I 
ever met with. Show them in, Sam. \_Exit Sam. 

Enter Dodson, followed by Fogg. 

Mr, Perk. {^Inclming his pen toxvards Mr. Pick- 
wick.) You have seen Mr. Pickwick, I believe? 

Dodson. {In a loud voice.) How do you do, Mr. 
Pickvv'ick? 

Fogg. Dear me, how do you do, Mr. Pickwick? 
I hope you are well, sir. {Draws a chair to table., 
and takes papers from his coat pocket; Mr. Pick- 
wick bends his head slightly., rises^ and walks away 
to the window.) There's no occasion for Mr. Pick- 
wick to move, Mr. Perker. ( Unties bu7idle.) Mr. 
Pickwick is pretty well acquainted with these proceed- 
ings ; there are no secrets between us, I think. He ! 
he ! he ! 

Dod. Not many, I think. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Fogg. {Facetiously.) We shall make Mr. Pick- 
wick pay for peeping. ( Unfolds paper.) The 
amount of the taxed costs is one hundred and thirty- 
three, six, four, Mr. Perker. 

[Mr. Perker and he compare papers. 

Dod. {Affably^ I don't think you are looking 
quite so stout as when I had the pleasure of seeing 
you last, Mr. Pickwick. 

Mr. Pick. Possibly not, sir. I believe I am not, 
sir. I have been persecuted and annoyed by Scoun- 
drels of late, sir. 



292 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

Mj\ Perk. ( CougJiiiig violently.) Wouldn't you 
like to look at the morning paper, Mr. Pickwick? 
Mr. Pick. No ; — I thank you. 
Dod. True ; I dare say you have been annoyed in 
the Fleet ; there are some odd gentry here. 

[Mr. Perker has., meanthiie^ draw7t a check 
and given it to Fogg, who puts it tri- 
tiinphantly in his pocket-book. 
Fogg. (^Drawing on his gloves.) Now, Mr. 
Dodson, I am at your service. 

Dod. {Rising.) Very good. I am quite ready. 
Fogg. I am very happy to have had the pleasure 
of making Mr. Pickwick's acquaintance. I hope you 
don't think quite so badly of us, Mr. Pickwick, as 
when we first had the pleasure of seeing you. 

Dod. I hope not. Mr. Pickwick now knows us 
better, I trust. Whatever your opinion of gentlemen 
of our profession may be, I beg to assure you, sir, that 
I bear no ill-will or vindictive feeling towards you for 
the sentiments you thought proper to express in our 
office, on the occasion to which my partner has re- 
ferred. 

Fogg. O, no, no ; nor I. 

Dod. Our conduct, sir, will speak for itself, and 
iustify itself^ I hope, upon every occasion. I wish you 
good-morning, sir. 

Fogg. {Putting his umbrella tinder his arm., 
taking off his right glove, and extending his hand 
to Mr. p.) G6>^i/-morni ng, Mr. Pickwick. 

[Mr. p. thrusts his haiids under his coat- 
tails and gazes at Fogg with great 
scorn. 



SCENES IN THE FLEET. 293 

Air. Perk. {^Hastily.') Sam, open the door. 

Mr. Pick. Wait one instant. Perker, I will speak. 

Mr. Perk. (Rising nervously.^ My dear sir, 
pray let the matter rest where it is. Mr. Pickwick, I 
beg — 

Mr. Pick. {Hastily.') I will not be put dovvn^ 
sir. Mr. Dodson, you have addressed some remarks 
to me. (Dodson bows ineekly and smiles.) And 
your partner has tendered me his hand, and you have 
both assumed a tone of forgiveness and high-minded- 
ness, which is an extent of impudence that I was not 
prepared for, even in you. 

Dod. What, sir ! 

Pogg. What, sir ! 

Mr. Pick. Do you know that I have been the vic- 
tim of your plots and conspiracies? Do you know that 
I am the man whom you have been imprisoning and 
robbing .f* Do you know that you were the attorneys 
for the plaintiff, in Bardell and Pickwick.'' 

Dod. Yes, sir, we do know it. 

Pogg. {Slappi7zg his focket.) Of course we 
know it, sir. 

Mr. Pick. I see that you recollect it with satisfac- 
tion. Although I have been long anxious to tell you, 
in plain terms, what my opinion of you is, I should 
have let even this opportunity pass, in deference to my 
friend Perker's wishes, but for the unwarrantable 
tone you have assumed, and your insolent familiarity, 
— {turiiing Jiercely upon Fogg, zvho retreats to- 
wards the door) — I say insolent familiarit}', sir. 

Dod. {Between Fogg a7id the door.) Take care, 
sir! Let him assault you, Mr. Fogg; don't return it 
on any account. 



20J. DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

Fogg. {Retr eat mg farther.) No, no, I won't 
return it. 

Mr. Pick. You are a well-matched pair of mean, 
rascally, pettifogging robbers. 

Mr. Perk. Well, is that all .? 

Mr. Pick. It is all summed up in that ; they are 
mean, rascally, pettifogging robbers. 

Mr. Perk. {In a conciliato^-y tone.) There! 
my dear sirs, he has said all he has to say ; now pray 
go. Sam, is that door open } 

Sam, Yes, sir. 

Mr. Perk. There, there — good morning — good 
morning; now pray, my dear sirs, — Sam, the door! 
{Pushes them tozvards the door.) . This way, my 
dear sirs — now pray don't prolong this — dear me — 
Sam, the door ! 

Dod. {Putting on his hat^ and looking towards 
Mr. Pickwick.) If there's law in England, sir, you 
shall smart for this. 

Mr. Pick. You are a couple of mean — 

Fogg. Remember, sir, you pay dearly for this. 

Mr. Pick. Rascally, pettifogging robbers. {Exeunt 
DoDSON and Fogg ; Mr. P. rims after them.) Rob- 
bers ! Robbers ! {Returns tranquilly into the room.) 
There ! there's a weight taken off my mind ; now, 
Perker, I feel perfectly comfortable and happy. 

[Perker takes snuff., and falls to laughing 
heartily. 

Mr. Perk. I suppose, my dear sir, I ought to be 
very angry with you ; but, upon my word, I can't think 
of the business seriously, yet; when I can, I will be. 

Mr. Pick. Well, now, let me have a settlement 
with you. 



SCENES IN THE FLEET. 



295 



Mr. Perk. (^Laughing.) Of the same kind as 
the last ? 

Mr. Pick. {^Shaking him heartily by the ha^id^ 
Not exactly. I only mean a pecuniary settlement. 
You have done me many acts of kindness that I can 
never repay, and have no wish to, for I prefer con- 
tinuing the obligation. Sit down, sir, sit down. 

\_They sit at table^ c, ajid examine their 
accounts. Curtain. 



MRS. WELLER'S WILL. 



MRS. WELLER'S WILL.* 



Scene : The Sitting-Room of Mr. Weller's House, 
as in Vol. L page 73. Time^ the day after the 
funeral. Present^ Mr. W. afid Sam. 

Mr, Weller. Samivel ! I've found it, Sammy. I 
thought it was there. 

Sam. Thought wot wos were ? 

Mr. W. Your mother-in-law's Vill, Sammy. In 
wirtue o' vich, them arrangements is to be made as 
I told you on, last night, respectin' the funs. 

Sa7}2. Wot, didn't she tell you were it wos ? 

Mr. W. Not a bit on it, Sammy. We wos a-adjestin* 
our little differences, and I wos a-cheerin' her spirits, and 
bearin' her up, so that I forgot to ask anythin' about it. 
I don't know as I should ha' done it indeed, if I had 
remembered it, for it's a rum sort o' thing, Sammy, to 



* This can be used, if desired, in connection with other 
Scenes in which Sam Weller appears, in the following 
order : — 

1. Sam visits his Mother-in-law. . Vol. 

2. Sam Weller's Valentine. . . " 

3. A Family Party 

4. An Incomprehensible Letter. . . " 

5. The Widower. .... 

6. Mrs. Weller's Will. ..." 

299 



I. p. 28 


I. 


' 47 


2. 


' 258 


I. 


' 69 


a 


' 73 


2. 


" 299 



300 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

go a hankerin' arter anybody's property, veil you're 
assistin' 'em in illness. It's like helpin' an outside pas- 
senger up, ven he's been pitched off a coach, and put- 
tin' your hand in his pocket, vile you ask him-, vith a 
sigh, how he finds his-self, Sammy. {Takes out his 
pocket-book^ unclasps it^ and di^aws out a dirty pa- 
per covered with letters arid figures.) This here is 
the dockyment, Sammy. I found it in the little black 
tea-pot, on the top shelf o' the bar-closet. She used to 
keep bank-notes there afore she vos married, Samivel. 
I've seen her take the lid off, to pay a bill, many and 
many a time. Poor creetur, she might ha' filled all the 
tea-pots in the house vith vills, and not have incon- 
venienced herself neither, for s'he took wery little of 
anythin' in that vay lately, 'cept on the Temperance 
nights, ven they just laid a foundation o' tea to put the 
spirits a-top on ! 

Sam. Wot does it say ? 

Mr. W. Jist vot I told you, my boy. Tw^o hun- 
dred pounds vurth o' reduced counsels to my son-in-law, 
Samivel, and all the rest o' my property, of ev'ry kind 
and description votsoever, to my husband, Mr. Tony 
Veller, who I appint as my sole eggzekiter. 

Sa7n. That's all — is it? 

Mr. W. That's all. And I s'pose as it's all right 

and satisfactory to you and me, as is the only parties 

interested, ve may as veil put this bit o' paper into the 

fire. \^Stirs the fire ^ preparatory to burning the 

will. 

Sain. {Snatching the paper from Mm.) Wot 
are you a-doin' on, you lunatic ? You're a nice eggz- 
ekiter, you are. 



MRS. WELLERS WILL. 3OI 

Mr. W. (^Looking sternly round^ with the poker 
in his ha72d.) Vy not? 

Sam. Vy not ! 'Cos it must be proved, and pro- 
bated, and swore to, and all manner o' formalities. 

Afr. IV. (^Laying down poker.) You don't mean 
that.? 

Sam. (^Buttoning the will in his side pocket^ I 
do mean it. 

Air. W. {After meditating a moment.) Then 
I'll tell you wot it is : this is a case for that 'ere con- 
fidential pal o' the Chancellorship's. Pell must look 
into this, Sammy. He's the man for a difficult ques- 
tion at law. Ve'U have this here brought afore the 
Solvent Court directly, Samivel. 

Sam. {Irritably.) I never did see such a addle- 
headed old creetur ! Old Baileys, and Solvent Courts, 
and alleybis, and ev'ry species o' gammon alvays a- 
runnin' through his brain ! You'd better get your out- 
o' door clothes on, and come to town about this bis- 
ness, than stand a preachin' there, about wot you don't 
understand nothin' on. {Rises and puts 07t his hat.) 

Mr. W. Wery good, Sammy. I'm quite agreea- 
ble to anythin' as vill hexpedite bisiness, Sammy. But 
mind this here, my boy : nobody but Pell, nobody but 
Pell as a legal adwiser. 

\_Rises.t and ties on his shawl before the glass. 

Sam. I don't want anybody else. 

Mr. W. And as four heads is better than two, 
Sammy, and as all this here property is a wery great 
temptation to a legal gen'l'm'n, ve'll take a couple o' 
friends o' mine vith us, as'll be wery soon down upon 
him if he comes anythin' irreg'lar. They're the wery 



302 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

best judges, {takes up Jiis ove7'-coat)^ — the wery best 
judges of a horse you ever know'd. 

Sa7?i. And of a hiwyer, too? 

Mr. W. {Dogmatically.) The man as can form 
a ackerate judgment of a animal, can form a ackerate 
judgment o' anythin'. 

Sam. {Near the door.) Now, are you a-comin'? 

Mr. W. {Struggli7ig into his over-coat.) Vait a 
minit, Sammy, — vait a minit. Ven you grow^ as old 
as your father, you von't get into your veskit quite as 
easy as you do now, my boy. 

Sa?n. If I couldn't get into it easier than that, I'm 
blessed if I'd vear vun at all. 

Mr. W. ( Gravely.) You think so now ; but 
you'll find that as you get vider, you'll get viser. Vidth 
and visdom, Sammy, alvays grows together. {His 
coat being o?z^ he buttons the lower button., stops to 
take breath., and brushes his hat with his elbow.) 
All ready now, Samivel. 

\_Exeu7it. Ctirtaifi, 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



A NEW ACQUAINTANCE. 

SOME VALUABLE ADVICE. 

JEALOUSY. 

A WICTIM O' CONNUBIALITY. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



A New Acquaintance.* 

Scene: Parlor of an Liii. Tlme^ evening; on table, 
c, two candles. Enter Mr. Pickwick and Sam, 
followed by Mr. Magnus. 

Mr. Magnus. Do you stop here, sir? 

Mr. Pickwick. I do. 

Mr. M. Dear me, I never knew anything hke these 
extraordinary coincidences. Why, I stop here, too. I 
hope we shall pass the evening together. 

Mr. P. With pleasure. I shall be ver}^ b^ppy to 
have your company, sir. 

Mr. M. Ah, it's a good thing for both of us — isn't 
it.^ Company, you see — company is — is — it's a 
very different thing from solitude — ain't it? 

Sam. There's no denyin' that 'ere. That's what I 
call a self-evident proposition, as the dog's-meat man 

* Arrange for an entertainment, as follows : — 

I. A New Acquaintance. 

II. A Romantic Adventure, Vol. I. p. 91. 

III. Some Valuable Advice, 

IV. Jealousy. 

20 305 



3o6 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

said when the housemaid told him he warn't a gen- 
tleman. 

Mr. j\f. {Eyeing" Sam superciliously.) Ah, 
friend of yours, sir? 

Mr. p. (/;? a low tone.) Not exactly a friend. 
The fact is, he is my servant ; but I allow him to take 
a good many liberties ; for, between ourselves, I flatter 
myself he is an original, and I am rather proud of him. 

Mr. M. Ah, that, you see, is a matter of taste. I 
am not fond of anything original. I don't like it ; 
don't see the necessity for it. {Abruptly-.) What's 
your name, sir? 

Mr. P. Here is my card, sir. \^Exit Sam. 

Mr. M. Ah ! Pickwick ; very good. I like to 
know a man's name, it saves so much trouble. That's 
my card, sir. Magnus, you will perceive, sir — Mag- 
nus is my name. It's rather a good name, I think, 
sir. 

Mr. P. {Smiling.) A very good name, indeed. 

Mr. M. Yes, I think it is. Thej'e's a good name 
before it, too, you will observe. Permit me, sir — if 
you hold the card a little slanting, this way, you catch 
the light upon the up-stroke. There — Peter Magnus 
— sounds well, I think, sir. {They sit.) 

Mr. P. Very. 

Mr. M. Curious circumstance about those Initials, 
sir. You will observe — P.M. — post meridian. In 
hasty notes to intimate acquaintance, I sometimes sign 
myself " Afternoon." It amuses my friends very much, 
Mr. Pickwick. 

Mr. P. {Dryly.) It Is calculated to aftbrd them 
the highest gratification, I should conceive. {A kiiock.) 



SCENES FROM PICKWICK. 307 

Mr. M. Come in. i^Door opens^ c.^ and discloses 
a CG7'pulcnt man suri'ounded by bagage^ Ah, my 
luggage ! Bring it in. {Man does so.) Is it all 
there ? 

Man. All right, sir. 

Mr. M. {Looking np.) Have you the red bag? 

Man. All right, sir. 

Mr. M. And the striped bag? 

Man. Yes, sir. 

Mr. M. And the brown-paper parcel? 

Man. Here it is, sir. 

Mr. M. And the leather hat-box? 

Alan. Here, sir. 

Mr. M. Are you sure? Excuse me, Mr. Pick- 
wick. I am quite satisfied from that man's manner, 
that that leather hat-box is not there. {Goes np aizd 
examines luggage.) Ah, yes ; here it is. ( To man.) 
Well, put them down there by the door. (Man obeys 
and turns to go ont.) 

Mr. P. Waiter ! 

Man. Yes, sir. 

Mr. P. Is there any gentleman of the name of 
Tupman, here? 

Man. No, sir. 

Mr. P. Nor any gentleman of the name of Snod- 
grass? 

Man. No, sir. 

Mr. P. Nor Winkle? 

Ma?2. No, sir. ( Turns again to go.) 

Mr. P. {To Mr. M.) My friends have not ar- 
rived to-day, sir. We shall pass the evening alone, 
then. W^aiter, a bottle of port. \^Exit Man. 



3o8 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

\_Tkey sit at table^ c. ; the bottle of port is 
brought^ and they drink to one another, 

Mr. M. {After surveying- Mr. P. for some ino- 
ments through his spectacles^ And what do you 
think — what do you think, Mr. Pickwick — I have 
come down here for? 

Mr. P. Upon my word, it is wholly impossible for 
me to guess ; on business, perhaps? 

Mr. M. Partly right, sir, but partly wrong, at the 
the same time. Try again, Mr. Pickwick. 

Mr. P. Reall}', I must throw myself on your mer- 
cy, to tell me or not, as you may think best ; for I 
should never guess, if I were to try all night. 

Mr. M. ( With a bashfoil titter.) Why, then,— 
he — he — he! — what should you think, Mr. Pick- 
wick, if I had come dow^n here, to make a proposal, 
sir, eh ? He — he — he ! 

Mr. P. {Smili7ig.) Think! that you are very 
likely to succeed. 

Mr. M. Ah ! But do you really think so, Mr. 
Pickwick? Do you, though? 

Mr. P. Certainly. 

Mr. M. No. But you're joking, though. 

J\Ir. P. I am not, indeed ! . 

Mr. M. Why, then, to let you into a litde secret, / 
think so too. I don't mind telling you, Mr. Pickwick, 
although Pm dreadfully jealous by nature — horrid — 
that the lady is in this house. 

\_Takes off his spectacles^ winks at Mr. P., 
and puts them 07i again. 

Mr. /^. No ! * 

Air. M. Yes, sir. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 309 

Mr. P. You've seen her, then ? 

AL', M. No. Wouldn't do, you know, after hav- 
ing just come off a journey. Wait till to-morrow, sir ; 
double the chance then. Mr. Pickwick, sir, there's 
a suit of clothes in that bag, and a hat in that box, 
which I expect, in the effect they will produce, will be 
invaluable to me, sir. 

Mr, P. Indeed ! 

Mr, M, Yes. You must have observed my anx- 
iety about them. I do not believe that such another 
suit of clothes, and such a hat, could be bought for 
money, Mr. Pickwick. 

Mr, P, I congratulate you, sir, upon the possession 
of such irresistible garments. 

\_A^pause^ during which Mr. 'M., is lost in 
thought. • 

Mr, M. She's a fine creature. 

Mr, P, Is she? 

Mr. M. Very, — very. She lives about twenty 
miles from here, Mr. Pickwick. I heard she v/ould 
be here to-night, and all to-morrow forenoon, and came 
down to seize the opportunity. I -think an inn is a 
good sort of place to propose to a single woman in, 
Mr. Pickwick. She is more likely to feel the loneli- 
ness of her situation in travelling, perhaps, than she 
would be at home. What do you think, Mr. Pickwick ? 

Mr. P. I think it very probable. 

Mr. M. I beg your pardon, Mr. Pickwick ; but I 
am naturally rather curious ; what \-n3.y you have come 
down here for ? 

Mr. P. On a far less pleasant errand, sir. I have 
come down here, sir, to expose the treachery and fiilse- 



3IO DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

hood of an individual, upon whose truth and honor I 
phiced implicit reliance. 

Mr, M. Dear me, that's very unpleasant. It is a 
lady, I presume? Eh? Ah! Sly, Mr. Pickwick, 
sly ! Well, Mr. Pickwick, sir, I wouldn't probe your 
feelings for the world. Painful subjects, these, sir, 
very painful. Don't mind me, Mr. Pickwick, if you 
wish to give vent to your feelings. I know what it is 
to be jilted, sir ; I have endured that sort of thing three 
or four times. 

Mr. P. ( Wind nig' up his watch.) I am much 
obliged to you for your condolence, on what you pre- 
sume to be my melancholy case ; but — 

Mr. M. No, no, not a word more ; it's a painful 
subject. I see — I see! What's the timef Mr. Pick- 
wick? 

Mr. P. Past twelve. 

Air. M. Dear me, it's time to go to bed. It will 
never do, sitting here. I shall be pale to-morrow, Mr. 
Pickwick. {Riiigs; eiiter sei-vant.') Take this lug- 
gage to my bed-room. Good-night, Mr. Pickwick ; 
good-night! 

[ Takes candle and exit. Curtain. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 3II 



Some Valuable Advice. 

Scene : A room in an Inn. Time^ vioi'7iing; table 
set for two; Mr. Magnus, goi-geously arrayed^ 
and much excited^ faces the roojtt. 

Enter Mr. Pickwick. 

Mr. Magitus. Good-morning, sir. What do you 
think of this, sir? 

Mr., Pickwick. (^Siwveying him good-naturedly^ 
Very effective, indeed. 

Mr. M. Yes, I think it'll do. Mr. Pickwick, sir, 
I have sent up my card. 

Mr. P. Have you ? 

Mr. M. (^Nervously. ^ Yes ; and the waiter brought 
back word that she would see me at eleven — at eleven, 
sir ; it only wants a quarter now. 

Mr. P. Very near the time. 

Mr. M. Yes, it is rather near; rather too near to 
be pleasant — eh! Mr. Pickwick, sir. 

]\Ir. P. Confidence is a great thing in these cases. 

Mr. M. I believe it is, sir. I am very confident, 
sir. Really, Mr. Pickwick, I do not see why a man 
should feel any fear in such a case as this, sir. What 
is it, sir? There's nothing to be ashamed of; it's a 
matter of mutual accommodation, nothing more. Hus- 
band on one side, wife on the other. That's my view 
of the matter, Mr. Pickwick. 

Mr. P. It is a very philosophical one. But break- 
fiist is waiting, Mr. Magnus. Come ! {They sit.) 

Mr.M. {Much agitated.) He — he— he! It only 
wants two minutes, Mr. Pickwick. Am I pale, sir.? 



312 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

M?\ P. Not very. {A pazise.) 

Mr. M. I beg your pardon, Mr. Pickwick ! but 
have you ever done this sort of thing in your time? 

Mr. P. You mean proposing? 

Mr. M. Yes! 

Mr. P. {Efiergetically.) Never, sir. Never! 

Mr. M. You have no idea, then, how it's best to 
begin? 

Air. P. Why, I may have formed some ideas upon 
the subject, but as I never have submitted them to the 
test of experience, I should be sorrv if you were in- 
duced to regulate your proceedings by them. 

Air. AI. {Looking' again at his watch.) I should 
feel very much obliged to you for any advice, sir. 

Mr. P. ( W^ith prqfou7zd soleniJiity.) Well, sir, 
I should commence, sir, with a tribute to the lady's 
beauty and excellent qualities ; from them, sir, I should 
diverge to my own unworthiness. 

Air. M. Very good. 

Air. P. Unworthiness for her only, mind, sir ; for, 
to show that I was not wholly unworthy, sir, I should 
take a brief review of my past life and present condi- 
tion. I should argue, by analogy, that to anybody 
else, I must be a very desirable object. I should then 
expatiate on the warmth of my love, and the depth of 
my devotion. Perhaps I might then be tempted to 
seize her hand. 

Air. AI. Yes, I see. That would be a very great 
point. 

Air. P. ( Warming with the subject.') I should 
then, sir, come to the plain and simple question, " Will 
you have me?" I "think I am justified in assuming 
that upon this she would turn away her head. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



313 



Mr, M. You think that may be taken for granted? 
Because, if she did not do that, at the right place, it 
would be embarrassing. 

Air, P, I think she would. Upon this, sir, I 
should squeeze her hand, and I think, — I think,, Mr. 
Magnus — that, after I had done that, supposing there 
were no refusal, I should gently draw away the hand- 
kerchief, which my slight knowledge of human nature 
leads me to suppose the lady would be applying to her 
eyes at the moment, and steal a respectful kiss. I 
think I should kiss her, Mr. Magnus ; and at this par- 
ticular point, I am decidedly of the opinion that if the 
lady were going to take me at all^ she would murmur 
into m)^ ears a bashful acceptance. (Mr. M. starts,, 
gazes at Mr. P., shakes hiin warmly by the hand^ and 
rushes off c. D. Mr. P. rises and paces the room. 
Door opens; enter Messrs. Tupman, Winkle, and 
Snodgrass. They salute, Mr. P. greets them,, and 
as they exchange salutations^ Mr. Magnus " cojnes 
tripping in.'') 

Mr. P, My friends, Mr. Magnus. 

Mr. M, (^Excitedly.) Your servant, gentlemen. 
Mr. Pickwick, allow me to speak to you one moment, 
sir. {Draws him aside.) Congratulate me, Mr. 
Pickwick ; I followed your advice to the very letter. 

Mr. P, And it was all correct — was it? 

Mr, M, It was, sir — could not possibly have been 
better. Mr. Pickwick, she is mine ! 

Mr, P. I congratulate you with all my heart. 

Mr. M. You must see her, sir ; this way, if you 
please. Excuse us for one instant, gentlemen. 

\_Bxeunt Mr. P. and Mr. M. 



314 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 



Jealousy. 

Scene ; Private Parlor of the Inn. Miss Wither- 
FIELD seated^ l. A k7iock at door^ r. 

Miss Witherfield. Come in ! 

Enter Mr. Magnus and Mr. Pickwick. 

Mr. M. Miss Witherfield, allow me to introduce 
my very particular friend, Mr. Pickwick. Mr. Pick- 
wick, I beg to make you known to Miss Witherfield. 
[Miss W. rises ; Mr. P., r. c, bozvs^ takes 
out his spectacles^ puts them on^ utters 
an exclamation of surprise^ and retreats 
several paces ; Miss W., l., ivith a half- 
suppressed scream^ hides her face in her 
haiids^ and drops iitto her chair ; AIr. 
M. stands^ c, 7notionless with horror 
and surprise ; tableau. 
Mr. M. {In a threatening- toize.) Mr. Pickwick, 
what is the meaning of this, sir? {Louder.) What 
is the meaning of it, sir? 

Mr. P. {Indigna7itly.) Sir, I decline answering 
that question. 

Mr. M. You decline it, sir? 

Mr. P. I do, sir. I object to saying anything 
which may compromise that lady, or awaken unpleas- 
ant recollections in her breast, without her consent. 

Mr. AL Miss Witherfield, do you know this per- 
son? 

Miss W. {Hesitati7tg^) Know him ! 



MISCELLANEOUS. 3l5 

Mr.M. {Fiercely.) Yes, know him, ma'am? I 
said know him. 

Miss VV. I have seen him. 

Mr. M. Where ? Where ? 

Miss W. {Rising and averting her head.) That 
I would not reveal for worlds. 

Mr. P. I understand you, ma'am, and respect your 
delicacy; it shall never be revealed by me, depend 
upon it. 

Mr. M. Upon my word, ma'am, considering the 
situation in which I am placed with regard to your- 
self, you carry this matter off with tolerable coolness 
— tolerable coolness, ma'am. 

Miss W. { Weepi?tg.) Cruel Mr. Magnus ! 

Mr. P. Address your observations to me, sir. I 
alone am to blame^ if anybody be. 

Mr.M. O! you alone are to blame — are you, 
sir? I — I see through this, sir. You repent of 
your determination now — do you? 

Mr. P. My determination ! 

Mr. M. Your determination, sir. O ! don't stare 
at me, sir ; I recollect your words last night, sir. You 
came down here, sir, to expose the treachery and false- 
hood of an individual on whose truth and honor you 
had placed implicit reliance, eh ? ( Takes off his spec- 
tacles and rolls his eyes fiercely:) Eh ? But you 
shall answer it, sir. 

Mr. P. Answer what? 

Mr. M. {Striding up and down the room.) Nev- 
er mind, sir ! Never mind ! 

Mr. P. { Opening door., r., a7zd calling off.) Tup- 
man, come here ! 

[Mr. T. etiters with a look of surprise. 



31 6 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

Mr. P. Tupman, a secret of some delicacy, in 
which that lady is concerned, is the cause of a differ- 
ence which has just arisen between this gentleman and 
myself. When I assure him, in your presence, that 
it has no relation to himself, and is not in any way 
connected with his affairs, I need hardly beg you to 
take notice that if he continues to dispute it, he ex- 
presses a doubt of my veracity, which I shall consider 
extremely insulting. 

[Mr. p. " looks Eiicyclopcedlas " at Mr. M., 
who strides up and down the roojTZ^ mut- 
tering.^ pulling his hair., etc. 
Mr. Af. {Stopping before Mr. P., and shaking 
his fist in the latter s face.) You shall hear from me 
again, sir ! 

Air. P. ( IVith lofty politeness.) The sooner the 
better, sir ! 

[Miss W. rushes ofi in terror., l. ; Mr. Tup- 
man drags Mr. P. ofi^., r. ; Mr. M. con- 
tinues to rave.) c. ; Curtain. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 317 

" A WiCTIM O' CONNUBIALITY." 

Scene : A Room in a Public House. Mr. Weller 
seated at table^ c, dining off a cold roiutd of beef^ 
a loaf of breads and a pot of ale. Sam enters^ R., 
%vith a travelling bag and a portmanteau. 

Sam, How are you, my ancient .'' 

Mr. Weller. {^Lookiiig up in astonisJuneiit.) Wy, 
Sammy! {Rises slowly., and they shake hands.) 
How are 30U ? (Sam 7zods in reply .^ a?td places lug- 
gage on the floor ; Mr. W. sits again., l. of table., aiid 
resumes his former occupationi) That 'ere your gov- 
ernor's luggage, Sammy ? 

Sam. You might ha' made a worser guess than 
that, old feller. The governor hisself '11 be down here 
presently. 

Mr. W. He's a-cabbin' it, I suppose? 

Sa7n. Yes, he's a-havin' two mile o' danger at 
eight-pence. 

[Sam sits r. of table and watches his father. 

Mr. W. Wy, Sammy, I ha'n't seen you for two 
year and better. 

Sam. No more you have, old codger. How's 
mother-in-law? 

Mr. W. {Laying down his knife and fork., and 
speaking sole?7i7zly.) Wy, I'll tell you what, Sam- 
my, there never was a nicer woman as a widder 
than that 'ere second wenter o' mine — a sweet cree- 
tur she was, Sammy ; all I can say on her now, is, 
that as she was such an uncommon pleasant widder, 
it's a great pity she ever changed her con-dition. She 
don't act as a vife, Sammy. 



3l8 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

Sam, Don't she, though? 

Mr. W. i^Sighi7ig a?zd shaking his head.) I've 
done it once too often, Sammy ; I've done it once too 
often. Take example by your father, my boy, and be 
wery careful o' widders all your life, 'specially if they've 
kept a public-house, Sammy. {A pause., during 
which Mr. W. takes a draught of ale ^ and Sam at- 
tacks the cold beef.) She's queer, Sammy, queer; 
and she's been gettin' uncommon pious, lately, to be 
sure. She's too good a creetur' for me, Sammy, — 
I feel I don't deserve her. 

Sam. Ah, that's v^ery self-denying o' you. 

Mr, W. ( With a sigh.) Wery. {Another pause.) 
Wy, what do you think them women does 'tother day, 
Sammy, — what do you think they does.? 

Sam. Don't know : what? 

Mr. W. Goes and gets up a grand tea-drinkin' for 
a feller they calls their vShepherd. I was a-standing 
starin' in at the pictur'-shop, down at our place, when 
I sees a little bill about it : " Tickets, half-a-crown. 
All applications to be made to the committee. Sec- 
retary, Mrs. Weller." Well, what with your mother-in- 
law a-worrying me to go, and what with my looking 
for'ard to seein' some queer starts if I did, I put my 
name down for a ticket ; at six o'clock on the Friday 
evenin,' I dresses myself out, wery smart, and off I 
goes vith the old 'ooman, and up we walks into a fust 
floor, where there was tea-things for thirty, and a whole 
lot o' women as begins whisperin' to one another, and 
lookin' at me, as if they'd never seen a rayther stout 
gen'l'm'n of eight and fifty afore. By and by, there 
comes a great bustle down stairs, and a lanky chap. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 319 

with a red nose and white neck-cloth, rushes up, and 
sings out, " Here's the Shepherd a-comin' to wisit his 
faithful flock ; " and in comes a fat chap in black, vitli 
a great white foce, a-smilin' away like clock-work. 
Such goin's on, Sammy ! " The kiss of peace," says 
the Shepherd ; and then he kissed the women all 
round, and ven he'd done, the man with the red nose 
begun. I was just a-thinkin' vether I hadn't better 
begin, too, — 'specially as there was a wery nice lady 
a-sittin' next me, — ven in comes the tea, and your 
mother-in-law, as had been makin' the kettle bile, 
down stairs. At it they went, tooth and nail. Such 
eatin' and drinkin' ! I wish you could ha' seen the 
Shepherd walking into the ham and muffins. I never 
see such a chap to eat and drink — never. The red- 
nosed man warn't by no means the sort o' person you'd 
like to grub by contract ; but he was nothin' to the 
Shepherd. Well ; arter the tea was over, they sang 
a hymn, and then the Shepherd began to preach. And 
wery well he did it, considerin' how heavy them muf- 
fins must have lied on his chest. Presently he pulls 
up, all of a sudden, and hollers out, '' Where is the 
sinner; where is the mis'rable sinner? " upon which, 
all the women looked at me, and began to groan as if 
they was dying. I thought it was rather sing'ler ; but, 
howsever, I says nothing. Presently he pulls up 
again, and looking wery hard at me, says, " Where is 
the sinner; where is the mis'rable sinner?'* and all 
the women groans again, ten times louder than afore. 
I got rather wild at this, so I takes a step or two for'- 
ard, and says, " My friend," says I, " did you apply 
that 'ere obserwation to me?" 'Stead o' begging my 



320 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

pardon, as any genTm'n would ha' done, he got more 
abusive than ever; called me a wessel, Sammy — a 
wessel o' wrath — and all sorts of names. So my 
blood behig reg'larly up, I first gave him two or three 
for himself, and then two or three more to hand over 
to the man with the red nose, and walked off. I wish 
you could ha' heard how the women screamed, Sam- 
my, ven they picked np the vShepherd from under the 
table. 

[ Winks at Sam, rises^ goes to cJiimizey^ 
Jills his pipe^ lights it^ returns^ and 
throwiiig himself back i7i his chair^ 
smokes vigorously ; Sam.^ having finished 
his meal^ takes up the ale jug^ nods to 
his father^ and taking a long pull at it^ 
sets it down half empty, 
J/r. W. (^Looking into the pot.) Wery good 
power o' suction, Sammy. You'd ha' made an un- 
common fine oyster, Sammy, if you'd been born in 
that station o' life. 

Sa7fi. Yes, I des-say I should ha' managed to pick 
up a respectable livin'. 

Air. W. (^Shaking up the ale ^ by describing small 
circles with the pot.) I'm wery sorry, Sammy, to 
hear as you let yourself be gammoned by that 'ere 
Trotter. I always thought, up to three days ago, that 
the names of Veller and gammon could never come 
into contract, Sammy — never. 

Sam. Always exceptin' the case of a widder, of 
course. 

Mr. W. (^Embarrassed.) Widders, Sammy, — 
widders are 'ceptions to ev'ry rule. I have heerd how 



MISCELLANEOUS. 331 

many ord'nary women one vvidder's equal to, in p'Int 
o' comin' over you. I think it's five-and-twenty ; but 
I don't rightly know vether it ain't more. 

Sam, Well ; that's pretty well. 

Air. W. Besides, that's a wery different thing. 
You know what the counsel said, Sammy, as defended 
the gen'l'm'n as beat his wife with a poker, venever he 
got jolly. " And arter all, my lord," says he, " it's a 
am'able weakness." So I says respectin' widders, Sam- 
my, and so you'll say, ven you gets as old as me. 

Sam. I ought to ha' know'd better, I know. 

Mr. W. (^Striking the table with his fist.) Ought 
to ha' know'd better ! Ought to ha' know'd better ! 
Why, I know a young 'un as hasn't had half nor quar- 
ter your eddication — as hasn't slept about the mar- 
kets, no, not six months — who'd ha' scorned to be let 
in, in such a vay ; scorned it, Sammy. 

\^]Miich excited., he rings the bell., and or- 
ders ajzother pint of ale. 
. Sam.. Well, it's no use talking about it, now. It's 
over and can't be helped, and that's one consolation, 
as they always says in Turkey, ven they cuts the 
w^rong man's head off. It's my innings now, gov'nor, 
and as soon as I catches hold o' this 'ere feller, I'll 
have a good 'un. 

Mr. W. I hope you will, Sammy. I hope you 
will. Here's your health, Sammy, and may you 
speedily vipe off the disgrace as you've inflicted on the 
family name. {^Takes a long pull at the ale., and 
hands the mug to Sam, who quickly empties it.) 
And now, Sammy {looks at his watch)., it's time I 
was up at the office to get my vay-bill, and see the 

21 



322 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

coach loaded ; for coaches, Sammy, is Hke guns — 
they requires to be loaded with vvery great care, afore 
they go off. (Sam smiles; Mr. W. conti7iues sol- 
em7tly.) I'm goin' to leave you, Samivel, my boy, and 
there's no tellin' ven I shall see you again. Your moth- 
er-in-law may ha' been too much for me, or a thousand 
things may have happened by the time you next hears 
any news o' the celebrated Mr. Veller o' the Bell Sav- 
age. The family name depends wery much upon you, 
Samivel and I hope you'll do wot's right by it. Upon 
all little pints o' breedin', I know I may trust you as 
veil as if it was my own self. So I've only this here 
one little bit of advice to give you. If ever you gets 
to up'ards o' fifty, and feels disposed to go a marryin' 
anybody — no matter who — just shut yourself up in 
your own room, if you've got one, and p'isen your- 
self off-hand. Hangin's wulgar, so don't you have 
nothin' to say to that. P'ison yourself, Samivel, my 
boy, p'ison yourself, and you'll be glad on it arter- 
wards. {Looks steadily at Sam, turns slowly^ and 
opens the door^ r., jtist as Mr. Pickwick is about to 
ejiter ; Mr. W. steps back to c. and touches his hat ) 
Good-mornin,' sir. 

Air. P. {Eitierifjg.) Good-morning. 

[Sam rises^ and going to Mr. P., relieves 
him of his coat^ hat^ and cane. 

Mr. IV. Fine mornin', sir ! 

Afr. P. Beautiful, indeed ! 

Sam. {Nudging his father^ Be quiet, old feller, 
it's the governor. 

Mr. W. No ! is it, though ? ( Takes off his hat 
and advances to Mr. P.) Beg your pardon, sir, I 
hope you've no fault to find vith Sammy, sir. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 323 

Mr. p. None whatever. 

Mr. W. Weiy glad to hear it, sir. I took a good 
deal o' pains with his eddication, sir ; let him run in 
the streets when he was wery young, and shift for his- 
self. It's the only way to make a boy sharp, sir. 

Mr. W. {Smiling:) Rather a dangerous process, 
I should imagine. 

Sam. And not a wery sure one, neither. Remem- 
ber how I got done the other day. 

[Mr.- p. takes a chair near the table. 

Mr. W. I remember. And, now I think of it 
{coming dozvn to Mr. P.), warn't one o' them chaps 
slim and tall, with long black hair, and the gift o' the 
gab wery gallopin' ? 

Mr. P. {Hesitatingly >i Y-es. 

Mr. W. 'Tother's a black-haired chap, in mulber- 
ry livery, with a wery large head ? 

Mr. P. and Sam. {Eagerly.) Yes, yes, he is. 

Mr. W. Then I know where they are, and that's 
all about it ; they're at Ipswich, safe enough. 

Mr. P. No ! 

Mr. W. Fact, and I'll tell you how I know it. I 
work an Ipswich coach now and then for a friend o' 
mine, and the last time I worked down, I took 'em up 
at the Black Boy, at Chelmsford, right through to Ips- 
wich, where the man-servant — him in the mulberries 
— told me they was a-goin' to put up for a long time. 

Mr. P. I'll follow him. We may as well see Ips- 
wich as any other place. I'll follow him. 

Sam. You're quite certain it was them, governor? 

Mr. W. Quite, Sammy, quite, for their appear- 
ance is wery sing'ler ; besides that 'ere, I wondered to 



324 DIALOGUES FROM DICKENS. 

see the gen'l'm'n so formiliar with his servant; and 
more than that, as they sat in front, right behind the 
box, I heerd 'em laughing, and saying how they'd done 
old Fireworks. 

Mr. P. Old who? 

Mr. W. Old Fireworks, sir ; by which, I've no 
doubt, they meant you, sir. 

Mr. P. (^Striki)ig the table with his fst.) I'll 
follow him. 

Mr. W. I shall work down to Ipswich the day 
arter to-morrow, sir, and if you really mean to go, 
you'd better go with me. [ Goes towards door. 

Mr. P. So we had ; very true. We will go with 
you. But don't hurry away, Mr. Weller ; won't you 
take anything? \_Rings bell. 

Mr. IV. (Stopping.) You're wery good, sir; 
perhaps a small glass of brandy to drink your health, 
and success to Sammy, sir, wouldn't be amiss. 

Mr. P. Certainly not. (To waiter, who enters.) 
A glass of brandy here ! 

[^The brandy is brought; Mr. W. pulls his 
hair to Mr. P., nods to Sam, and tosses 
it off. 

Sam. Well done, father ; take care, old feller, or 
you'll have a touch of your old complaint, the gout. 

Mr. W. (Setting down the glass.) I've found a 
sov'r'i'n cure for that, Sammy. 

Mr. P. (Hastily taking out his note-book.) A 
sovereign cure for the gout ! What is it? 

Mr. W. The gout, sir; — the gout is a complaint 
as arises from too much ease and comfort. If ever 
you're attacked with the gout, sir, jist you marry a 



MISCELLANEOUS. 325 

widder as has got a good loud woice, with a decent 
notion of usin' it, and you'll never have the gout agin. 
It's a capital prescription, sir. I takes it reg'lar, and 
I can warrant it to drive away any illness as is caused 
by too much jollity. 

[ Gives a labored wink^ sighs deeply^ and 
slowly retires. 
Mr, P. (^Smiling.) Well, what do you think of 
what your father says, Sam ? 

Sam. Think, sir ! Why, I think he's the wictim 
o' connubiality, as Blue Beard's domestic chaplain 
said, with a tear of pity, ven he buried him. 

[ Curtain, 

Note. — This Scene maj^ be used before No. i, on the list 
given on page 299; or, if that would make the play too long, 
it may be substituted for No. i or No. 2. 



INDEX TO CHARACTERS AND COSTUMES. 



Alfred. See Heathfield. 

Allen, Miss Arabella. See Mrs. Nathaniel Winkle. 

Aunt Martha. See Jeddler. 

Bardell. Mrs. Martha. 7 _, -rr , t * 
> See vol. I.* 
Bardell, Tommy. } 

Belle. Engaged to Scrooge in his jouth. "A fair young 
girl, in a mourning-dress." 

Benton, Miss. Master Humphrey's housekeeper, "very 
smartly dressed." 

Bertha. See Plummer. 

Boffin, NicoDEMUs. "A broad, round-shouldered, one- 
sided old fellow, in mourning; dressed in a pea over- 
coat, and carrying a large stick." Thick shoes, thick 
leather gaiters, thick gloves "like a hedger's," and 
broad brimmed hat. At " The Bower," page 207, he 
is "easily attired, in an undress of short, white smock- 
frock." 

Boffin, Henrietta. Wife of Nicodemus. " A stout lady, 
of a rubicund and cheerful aspect. A smiling crea- 
ture, broad of figure, and simple of nature." Costume 
at The Bower: "a low evening dress, of sable satin, 
and a large, black velvet hat and feathers." 

Boxer. A Newfoundland dog, belonging to John Peerybin- 
gle. 

* "Dialogues from Dickens." 



328 INDEX. 

Britain, Benjamin. Servant to Dr. Jeddler. Scene I. page 
105. " A small man with a sour, discontented face." 
Scene II. page 134 (three years later), " much broader, 
much redder, much more cheerful, and much jollier, 
in all respects." Scene III. page 148 (six years later), 
*' a proper figure for a landlord, short, round, and 
broad." 

Britain, Mrs. See Newcome. 

Christmas Past, Ghost op. "A strange figure — like a 
child. Its hair, which hangs about -its neck and down 
its back, is white as if with age; yet its face has not a 
wrinkle on it, and the tenderest bloom is on the skin. 
The arms are very long and muscular. Its legs and 
feet delicately formed, and, like the arms, bare. It 
wears a tunic of purest white; around its waist is 
bound a lustrous belt. It holds a branch of fresh green 
holly in its hand, and its dress is trimmed with sum- 
mer flowers. The strangest thing about it is, that from 
the crown of its head there springs a clear jet of light, 
by which all this is visible; this occasions its using a 
great extinguisher for a cap, which it holds under its 
arm." 

Christmas Present, Ghost of. As Scrooge sleeps in 
his chair, his room has undergone a transformation. 
"The walls and ceiling are hung with living green, 
from everj' part of which glisten bright gleaming ber- 
ries. Such a mighty blaze roars up the chimney, as 
that hearth has never known in Scrooge's time. Heaped 
on the floor (l.), to form a sort of throne, are turkeys, 
geese, pies, puddings, apples, pears, oranges, immense 
Twelfth cakes, and seething bowls of punch. In easy 
state upon this couch, there sits a jolly Giant. He bears 
a glowing torch, shaped like Plentyls horn, and holds 
it up as Scrooge wakes. He is clothed in one simple 
deep-green robe, or mantle, bordered with white fur. 
The garment hangs loose, so that the breast of the 
figure is bare. Its feet are also bare, and on its head 



INDEX. 329 

is a holly wreath, set here and there with shining 
icicles. Its dark-brown curls are long and free. Girded 
round its middle is an antique scabbard; but no sword 
is in it, and the scabbard is eaten up with rust." 

Christmas Yet-to-Come, Ghost of. "A solemn Phan- 
tom, tall and stately; shrouded in a deep black gar- 
ment, which conceals its head, face, and form, leaving 
nothing visible, save one outstretched hand." 

Clemency. See Nevvcome. 

Cluppins, Mrs. Elizabeth. A friend of Mrs. Bardell. *' A 
little, brisk, busy-looking woman." She wears a cap. 

Copperfield, Mr. David. See Vol. I. 

Craggs, Mr. Thomas. Attorney. " A cold, hard, dry man, 
dressed in gray and white, like a flint." 

Craggs. Mrs. Wife to Thomas. Dress not described. 

Cratchit, Bob. Clerk to Ebenezer Scrooge. " Thread-bare 
clothes, darned up and brushed ; at least three feet of* 
white comforter, exclusive of the fringe, hanging down 
before him." His small, dark room, leading from 
Scrooge's office, is so cold that he wears his comforter 
constantly, and often tries to warm his hands at the 
candle. 

Cratchit, Mrs. Bob's wife. Scene I. page 27. "Dressed 
out, but poorly, in a twice-turned gown, but brave in 
ribbons, which are cheap, and make a goodly show for 
sixpence." Scene II. page 37, the same, without the 
ribbons. 

Cratchit, Martha. Bob's eldest daughter. "A poor ap- 
prentice at a milliner's." 

Cratchit, Peter. Bob's eldest son. No article of his dress 
described, except in Scene I. page 27. "A monstrous 
shirt collar, Bob's private property, conferred upon 
his son, in honor of the day." 

Cratchit, Belinda. Bob's second daughter. 

Cratchit, Tim. See Tiny Tim. 

Cricket, Fairy. Not described. 
21 



330 INDEX. 

DiLBER, Mrs. A laundress. 

DoDSON. Of Dodson & Fogg, attorneys for Mrs. Bardell. 

"A plump, portly, stern-looking man, with a loud 

voice." 
Dot. See Peerybingle. 

Edward. See Plummer. 

Fairy. See Cricket. 

Fielding, Mrs. " A little, querulous chip of an old ladj, 
with a peevish face, having waist like a bed-post." 

Fielding, May. A friend of Dot. 

Fogg. Of Dodson &.Fogg, attorneys. '*An elderly, pim- 
ply-faced, vegetable-diet sort of man, in black coat, 
dark mixture trousers, and small black gaiters." 

Fred. Scrooge's nephew. Not described. 

Ghost. See Christmas. 
Ghost. See Marley. 

Gruff and Tackleton. Dealers in toys, &c. See Tackle- 
ton. 

Heathfield, Alfred. Ward of Dr. Jeddler; engaged to 
Marion Jeddler; afterwards married to her sister, 
Grace. In both of the scenes in which he appears, 
he is dressed for travelling. 

Humphrey, Master. An old gentleman. 

Isaac. A constable; friend of Mr. Jackson. "A shabby 
man, in black leggins, carrying a thick ash stick." 

Jackson, Mr. Clerk to Dodson & Fogg. Brown coat and 
brass buttons; soiled drab trousers, tightly strapped 
over Blucher boots ; very dirty shirt collar, and a rusty 
black stock. Sandy hair, carefully parted on one side, 
flattened down with pomatum, and twisted into little 
semicircular tails around his face. 

Jeddler. Dr. Anthony. A philosopher. *' He has a streaked 
face, like a winter pippin, with here and there a dimple 



INDEX. 331 

to express the peckings of the birds, and a very little 
bit of pig-tail behind that stands for the stalk." 

Jeddler. '• Aunt Martha ; " maiden sister of Dr. Jeddler. 

Jeddler, Grace. Daughter of Dr. Jeddler; married to Al- 
fred Heathfield. 

Jeddler, Marion. Younger daughter of Dr. Jeddler. 

Joe. " The Fat Boy." Mr. Wardle's servant. Fat, and red- 
faced ; seldom awake, except when eating. 

Joe, Old. A pawnbroker. " A gray-haired rascal, nearly 
seventy years of age." 

Magnus, Peter. " A red-haired man, with an inquisitive 
nose and blue spectacles ; an important-looking, sharp- 
nosed, mysterious-spoken person, with a bird-like habit 
of giving his head a jerk every time he said anything." 
Dress not described. 

Marley, Ghost of. Long coat and waistcoat; tights; 
boots with tassels ; a long chain clasped about his 
middle and dragging behind him; a folded handker- 
chief bound under his chin; his hair tied in a bris- 
tling pig-tail. 

Martha, Aunt. See Jeddler. 

Mary. Mrs. Winkle's maid. 

MiCAWBER, WiLKiNS. "A stoutish, middle-aged person, in 
a brown surtout and black tights and shoes, with no 
more hair on his head (which was .a large one, and 
very shining), than there is upon an egg, and with a 
very extensive face. His clothes are shabby, and he 
has an imposing shirt collar on. He carries a jaunty 
sort of a stick with a large pair of rusty tassels to it, 
and a quizzing-glass hangs outside his coat." A gen- 
teel air and a condescending roll in his voice. 

MiCAWBER, Emma. Wife of Wilkins. "A thin, faded lady, 
not at all young; rather slatternly in her appearance." 
The only articles of dress mentioned, are a cap and 
brown gloves, and a scarf thrown over her shoulders. 

Newcome, Clemency. Scene. About thirty years old ; face 



332 INDEX. 

plump and cheerful. Dress, a printed gown, of many 
colors, and hideous pattern, and with short sleeves; a 
white apron ; a little cap perched awkwardly on her head, 
blue stockings, very large and clumsy shoes. " She al- 
ways had, by some accident, grazed elbows, in which she 
took such a lively interest, that she was continually try- 
ing to turn them round, and get impossible views of 
them." Scene (six years later), landlady of " The 
Nutmeg Grater." "Aplwmp, matronly woman, with a 
certain bright, good-nature in her face, and contented 
awkwardness in her manner." 

NiCKLEBY, Mrs. See Vol. I. 

NicKLEBY, -Kate. See Vol. I. 

Nutmeg Grater, The. An inn kept by Ben. Britain and 
Clemency Newcome, after their marriage. 

Peerybingle, John. "A poor carrier: lumbering, slow, 
honest John; this John, so heavy, but so light of spir- 
it; so rough upon the surface, but so gentle at the 
core; so dull without, so quick within; so stolid, but 
so good!" In Scene I. (page 49), he has on a rough 
great coat, a large comforter around his throat, and 
a heavy cap. His dress for the house would be likely 
to be a "homespun" suit. 

Peerybingle, Mrs. Mary. Otherwise called "Dot." " Fair, 
and young, and plump." 

Peerybingle, Master. "The baby ; two months and three 
days old ; " costume at " The Picnic," " a cream-colored 
mantle for its body, and a sort of nankeen raised-pie, 
for its head." 

Perker, Mr. Attorney. "A little, high-dried man, with 
a dark, squeezed-up face, and small, restless black 
eyes; dressed all in black, with very shiny boots, and 
a clean shirt with a frill to it; a gold watch-chain and 
seals depend from his fob. He carries his black kid 
gloves in his hands, not ou them." When he speaks, 
he has a way of " thrusting his wrists beneath his 
coat-tails, with the air of a man in the habit of pro- 



INDEX. 



333 



pounding regular posers." He is also much addicted 
to taking snuff from an oblong silver box. 

Pickwick, Mr. Samuel. See Vol. I. 

Plummer, Bertha. The blind daughter of Caleb Plummer. 

Plummer, Caleb. A poor toy-maker. "A little, meagre, 
thoughtful, dingy-faced man, who seemed to have made 
for himself a great coat from the sack cloth of some 
old box; for when he turned, he disclosed upon the 
back of that garment the inscription G. & T., in large 
black capitals. Also the word Glass, in bold charac- 
ters. He has a wandering, thoughtful eye, a descrip- 
tion which would equally apply to his voice." 

Plummer, Edward. Son of Caleb. Scene I. page 49, and 
Scene IV. page 76, he is disguised as a very deaf old 
man, with long white hair. " His garb is quaint and 
odd — a long way behind the time; its hue is brown 
all over. In his hand he carries a great brown club, 
or walking-stick, which, being struck upon the floor, 
falls asunder and becomes a chair." In Scene VII. page 
95, ne is a "young, sunburnt sailor-fellow, with dark, 
streaming hair;" having just returned from church, 
where he has been united to Mary Fielding, his dress 
must be appropriate to the occasion, and at the same 
time adapted to his station in life. 

Raddle, Mr. and Mrs. See Vol. I. 
Rogers, Mrs. One of Mrs. Bardell's lodgers. 

Sam. See Weller. 

Sanders, Mrs. A friend of Mrs. Bardell. "A big, fat, 
heavy-faced personage." 

Scrooge, Ebenezer. A miser; afterwards converted. Office 
and street dress, not described. In his room he has 
on a dressing-gown and slippers, and a night-cap; no 
cravat. 

Scrooge's Room. " Sitting-room, bed-room, lumber- 
room. Table; sofa; small fire in grate; spoon and 
basin ready on table ; little saucepan of gruel on the 



334 INDEX. 

hob ; dressing-gown hanging against the wall ; old fire- 
guard, old shoes, two fish-baskets, wash-stand on three 
legs, and a poker." 

Slithers, Mr. A hair-dresser. 

Slowboy, Miss Tilly. A foundling, and servant to Dot. 
*' Of a spare and straight shape; her garments a'ppear 
to be in constant danger of sliding off those sharp 
pegs, her shoulders, on which thej hang looselj. Her 
costume is remarkable for the partial developments of 
some flannel vestment of a- singular structure ; also for 
affording glimpses, in the region of the back, of a cor- 
set, in color, a dead green. She has a rare and sur- 
prising talent for getting the baby into difficulties, as 
she constantly brings its head into contact with doors, 
dressers, bed-posts, &c. 

Snitchey, Mr. Jonathan. Of Snitchey & Craggs, attor- 
neys. " He was like a magpie, or a raven, only not so 
sleek." 

Snitchey, Mrs. Wife of Jonathan. Dress not ^described, 
except that she wore a turban, in which was a bird of 
paradise feather. 

Stiggins. See Vol. I. 

Tilly. See Slowboy. 

Tiny Tim. Youngest son of Bob Cratchit; a cripple, carry- 
ing a little crutch. 
Traddles, Tommy. See Vol. I. 

Warden, Michael. A client of Snitchey & Craggs. He first 
appears as a man of about thirty years of age, negligent- 
ly dressed; afterwards (six years older), complexion 
browned by the sun; wearing a mustache; dressed in 
mourning; "cloaked, booted, and spurred." 

Wardle, Mr. a friend of Mr. Pickwick. "A stout gentle- 
man, in a blue coat and bright buttons, corduroy 
breeches, and top-boots." 

Wegg, Silas. "A literary man, with a wooden leg. A 



INDEX. 



335 



knotty man, and a close-grained, with a face carved 
out of very hard material." Dress not described. 

Weller, Mrs. Tony, "i 

Weller, Mr. Tony. )■ See Vol. I. 

Weller, Mr. Samuel. J 

Weller, Tony, 2d. Grandson to Tony Weller. "A very 
small boy, four years and eight months old, firmlv set 
on a couple of very sturdy legs; he has a very round 
face, strongly resembling his grandfather's, and a stout 
little body of exactly his build." 

Winkle, Nathaniel. A member of the Pickwick Club. A 
new, green shooting-coat, plaid neckerchief, and close- 
ly fitting drabs. 

Winkle, Mrs. Nathaniel {jiie Arabella Allen). Appears 
in "a lilac silk, a smart bonnet, and a rich lace veil; 
looking prettier than ever." 

Witherfield, Miss. A middle-aged lady. In the " Roman- 
tic Adventure," Vol. I. page 91, she wears a dressing- 
sack; her hair is done up in yellow curl-papers; and, 
having brushed her " back hair," she puts on her head 
a muslin night-cap, with a small, plaited border. 



